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W. D. ROSS, M.A. 









Oxford Uni'versity Press^ Amen House, London E.C.4 







1946, I95I, 1959 

R H E T O R I C A 







adiecere bonae paulo plus artis Athenae, 
scilicet ut vellem curvo dinoscere rectum, 
atque inter silvas Academi quaerere verum. 

Horace, Epistles, ii. 2, 43-5. 









a/ifi hk Kai o'l (ivdpionoi irpos to a\r]d(s 7r€(f)vKa<nv (Kacco; Kn\ ra n\(iu) 
Tvyxdvovm Trjs aXrjddnf. ARISTOTLE, Rhetoric, i, c. I, 1355* 15-17- 

)(pfjainos 8( fCTTiv 17 prjTopiKf] 8ia to (pvaei eivni /cpfiVro) TaXrjdri Kn\ tci 
dUaia Tcbv (vamiaii', wcrre eav prj Kara to npocrriKOv ai Kpivfii yiyvcovTai, 
dvayKT] 81' avTtiv fjTTaadai' tovto 8' e orli/ 1*^10;' eTrirt/iijcrea)?. 

ib., 1355a 21-4. 

dW ad ToXTfdfj Kai tci (3e\Tto) ttj (f)v(rfi (ixTvWoytfTTOTfpn Ka\ niOavaiTfpa 
a)S (irrXwr ftTrdv. rrpos 8e tovtois aTonnv d tw aiipaTi pkv aiaxpov pfj 
hxjvairOai ^orjddv iavra, Xoyto S' ovk aiaxpov' o paKkov i8i6v tCTTiv avdp^nov 
TTJt Tov aoopnTos XP^^a^- 'b., 1355*37-1355*^- 


In making its final volume consist of the Rhetoric and 
the Poetics (together with the RJietorica ad Alexandrnm — a 
minor tract of uncertain authorship), the Oxford Translation 
of Aristotle follows the usual order in which the collected 
Aiistotelian works have come, by tradition, to be arranged. 
The two great, and most characteristic, treatises which deal 
with the art of Public Speaking and the art of Poetry bring 
the long and amazing procession of Aristotle's thought to a 
fitting close. Language, as the instrument of thought and 
feeling,MS the theme they have in common ; language in its 
workaday and its loftiest uses ; language which, as the 
opening chapter of the Rhetoric sets forth, is the distinctive 
attribute of man and his best weapon in upholding truth 
and justice. In the last two words of the Poetics as it has 
come down to us, we may fancy that we hear Aristotle 
quietly taking leave of all the science, the logic, the meta- 
physics, and the political and moral wisdom that have gone 
before : elpijo-Ooi Toaavra, ' Let it suffice to have said thus 
much '. 

As for those who age after age make so-so attempts to 
translate Aristotle into other tongues, they can only hope 
that they may^ to some slight extent, have shunned the 
reproach of obscurity and may, in this and other ways, have 
striven to respond to the pious aspirations of the Emir of 
the Faithful, as quoted in Cope's Iiitroditction to Aristotle's 
Rhetoric: ' Un jour, disait Ibn-Roschd (Averroes), Ibn- 
Tofail me fit appeler et me dit : "J'ai entendu aujourd'hui 
I'emir des croyants se plaindre de I'obscurite d'Aristote et 
de ses traducteurs : Phlt a Dieu, disait-il, qu'il se rencontrdt 
quelqiiiin qui vouliU commenter ces livres et en expliqtier 
clairemetit le sens, pour les rendre accessibles aux hovimes ! " ' 
(Renan, Averroh et l" Aver roi sine ^ 3rd edition, p. 17). 


To the Introduction (Macmillan, 1867) and the Com- 
mentary (Cambridge University Press, 1H77) of that fine 
and still lamented scholar, Edward Meredith Cope, all 
British students of the Rhetoric owe a great debt. In the 
following translation I am further indebted to Professor 
W. D. Ross, to Dr. A. S. Way (for his verse renderings), to 
Professor E. A. Sonnenschein and Professor E. S. Forster, 
and above all to my former colleague at Leeds, Mr. L. H. G. 
Greenwood, whose singular command both of Greek and of 
English has been of the utmost service to me throughout. 

It should be added that Roemer's recension (2nd edition, 
1898) of the Greek text has been followed in the main. 
Divergences from it are noted as they occur. 

New Years Day, 



The watchword of the University of Wales, as given at the head of 
the dedicatory page, may be translated, word by word, as ' Optima Musa 
Veritas '. Our young Universities of Wales and Leeds will not, in 
their youthful exuberance, forget that Aristotle — like other great 
thinkers of Athens, the earliest of all Universities— prised truth and 
right more than oratory, hi oratory the best Athenian thinkers would 
have liked to see a modest ally of truth and right. But, as in his 
remarkable Preface {Book /, c. i) Aristotle gently points out, when he 
is looking with a philosopher' s eye upon the Greek oratory known to him, 
all good things can be abused save virtue alone. 



c. I. Rhetoric is the counterpart (avTiarpocfios) of Dialectic. It is 
a subject that can be treated systematically. The argumentative 
modes of persuasion (iricrTtn;) are the essence of the art of rhetoric : 
Jappeals to the emotions warp the judgement. The writers of current 
text-books on rhetoric give too much attention to the forensic branch 
(in which chicanery is easier) and too little to the political (where the 
issues are larger). Argumentative persuasion (nia-Tn) is a sort of 
demonstration (anodfi^is), and the rhetorical form of demonstration is 
the enthymeme {ivdvfirjfxa). Four uses of rhetoric. Its possible abuse 
is no argument against its proper use on the side of truth and justice. 
The honest rhetorician has no separate name to distinguish him from 
the dishonest. 

c. 2. Definition of rhetoric as 'the faculty of observing in any given 
case the available means of persuasion '. Of the modes of persuasion 
some belong strictly to the art of rhetoric, and some do not. The 
rhetorician finds the latter kind (viz. witnesses, contracts, and the like) 
ready to his hand. The former kind he must provide himself; and it 
has three divisions — (i) the speaker's power of evincing a personal 
character [fjdoi) which will make his speech credible ; (2) his power 
of stirring the emotions {nddr]) of his hearers ; (3) his power of proving 
a truth, or an apparent truth, by means of persuasive arguments. 
Hence rhetoric may be regarded as an offshoot of dialectic, and also 
of ethical (or, political) studies. The persuasive arguments are (a) the 
example (jrapaStty/ia), corresponding to induction (('nnyayT)) in dialectic ; 
{d) the enthymeme, corresponding to the syllogism ; (c) the apparent 
enthymeme, corresponding to the apparent syllogism. The enthymeme 
is a rhetorical syllogism, and the example a rhetorical induction. 
Rhetoric has regard to classes of men, not to individual men ; its 
subjects, and the premisses from which it argues, are in the main such 
as present alternative possibilities in the sphere of human action ; and 
it must adapt itself to an audience of untrained thinkers who cannot 
follow a long train of reasoning. The premisses from which entliy- 
memes are formed are 'probabilities' and 'signs'; and signs are 
either fallible or infallible, in which latter case they are termed 
Te(f^)7P*a. The lines of argument, or topics, which enthymemes follow 



may be distinguished as common (or, general) and special (i. e. special 
to a single study, such as natural science or ethics). The special lines 
should be used discreetly, if the rhetorician is not to find himself 
deserting his own field for another. 

c. 3. There are three kinds of rhetoric: A. political (deliberative), 
B. forensic (legal), and C. epideictic (the ceremonial oratory of display). 
Their (n) divisions, 0) times, and (y) ends are as follows : A. Political 
(a) exhortation and dehortation, O) future, (y) expediency and 
inexpediency ; B. Forensic (a) accusation and defence, O) past, (y) 
justice and injustice ; C. Epideictic (a) praise and censure, O) present, 
(7) honour and dishonour. 

c. 4. (A) The subjects of Political Oratory fall under five main heads : 
(i) ways and means, (2) war and peace, (3) national defence, (4) imports 
and exports, (5) legislation. The scope of each of these divisions. 

c. 5. In urging his hearers to take or to avoid a course of action, the 
political orator must show that he has an eye to their happiness, v 
Four definitions (of a popular kind : as usual in the Rhetoric)^ and 
some fourteen constituents, of happiness. 

c. 6. The political speaker will also appeal to the interest of his 
hearers, and this involves a knowledge of what is good. Definition 
and analysis of things ' good '. 

c. 7. Comparison of ' good ' things. Of two ' good ' things, which is 
the better ? This entails a consideration of degree — the lore of ' less 
or more '. 

c. 8. The political speaker will find his powers of persuasion most 
of all enhanced by a knowledge of the four sorts of government — " 
democracy, oligarchy, aristocracy, monarchy, and their characteristic 
customs, institutions, and interests. Definition of the four sorts 
severally. Ends of each. 

c. 9. (C) The Epideictic speaker is concerned with virtue and vice, 
praising the one and censuring the other. The forms of virtue. 
Which are the greatest virtues ? — Some rhetorical devices used by the 
epideictic speaker : ' amplification ', especially. Amplification is 
particularly appropriate to epideictic oratory ; examples, to political ; 
enthymemes, to forensic. 

c. 10. (B) The Forensic speaker should have studied wrongdoing — its 
motives, its perpetrators, and its victims. Definition of wrongdoing 
as injury voluntarily inflicted contrary to law. Law is either {a) special, 
viz. that written law which regulates the life of a particular community, 
or {b) general, viz. all those unwritten principles which are supposed 
to be acknowledged everywhere. Enumeration and elucidation of the 
seven causes of human action, viz. three involuntary, (i) chance, 
(2) nature, (3) compulsion ; and four voluntary, viz. (4) habit, (5) 
reasoning, (6) anger, (7) appetite. All voluntary actions are good or 


apparently good, pleasant or apparently pleasant. The good (or 
expedient) has been discussed under political oratory. The pleasant 
has yet to be considered. 

•c. II. Definition of pleasure, and analysis of things pleasant. — The 
motives for wrongdoing, viz. advantage and pleasure, have thus been 
discussed in chapters 6, 7, 11. 

c, 12. The characters and circumstances which lead men to commit 
wrong, or make them the victims of wrong. 

c. 13. Actions just and unjust may be classified in relation to (i) the 
law, (2) the persons afifected. The law may be (a) special, i. e. the law 
of a particular State, or (d) universal, i. e. the law of Nature. The 
persons affected may be (a) the entire community, (d) individual 
members of it. A wrongdoer must either understand and intend the 
action, or not understand and intend it. In the former case, he must 
be acting either from deliberate choice or from passion. It is deliberate 
purpose that constitutes wickedness and criminal guilt. Unwritten law 
(i) includes in its purview the conduct that springs from exceptional 
goodness or badness, e.g. our behaviour towards benefactors and 
friends ; (2) makes up for the defects in a community's written code of 
law. This second kind is equity. Its existence partly is, and partly 
is not, intended by legislators ; not intended, where they have noticed 
no defect in the law ; intended, where they find themselves unable to 
define things exactly, and are obliged to legislate as if that held good 
always which in fact only holds good usually. — Further remarks on the 
nature and scope of equity. 

c. 14. The worse of two acts of wrong done to others is that which 
is prompted by the worse disposition. Other ways of computing the 
comparative badness of actions. 

c. 15. The 'non-technical' (extrinsic) means of persuasion— those 
which do not strictly belong to the art (t«x»^) of rhetoric. They are 
five in number, and pertain especially to forensic oratory: (i) laws, 
(2) witnesses, (3) contracts, (4) tortures, (5) oaths. How laws may be 
discredited or upheld, according as it suits the litigant. Witnesses 
may be either ancient (viz. poets and other notable persons ; sooth- 
sayers ; proverbs) ; or recent (viz. well-known contemporaries who have 
expressed their opinions about some disputed matter, and witnesses 
who give their evidence in court). Ancient witnesses are more trust- 
worthy than contemporary. How contracts, and evidence given under 
torture, may be belittled or represented as important. In regard to 
oaths, a fourfold division exists : a man may either both offer and 
accept an oath, or neither, or one without the other — that is, he may 
offer an oath but not accept one, or accept an oath but not offer one. 



c. I. Since rhetoric — political and forensic rhetoric, at any rate — 
exists to affect the giving of decisions, the orator must not only try to 
make the argument of his speech demonstrative and worthy of belief ; 
he must also (i) make his own character look right and (2) put his 
hearers, who are to decide, into the right frame of mind. As to his own 
character: he should make his audience feel that he possesses 
prudence, virtue, and goodwill. This is especially important in a 
deliberative assembly. In the law courts it is especially important 
that he should be able to influence the emotions, or moral affections, 
of the jury who try the case. Definition of the several emotions. In 
regard to each emotion we must consider (a) the states of mind in 
which it is felt ; (A) the people towards whom it is felt ; {c) the grounds 
on which it is felt. 

c. 3. In cc. 2-1 1 the various emotions are defined, and are also 
discussed (with incidental observations) from the three points of view 
just indicated. In c. 2, Anger is the subject. The orator must so 
speak as to make his hearers angry with his opponents. 

c. 3. Calmness (as the opposite of Anger). 

c. 4. Friendship and Enmity. 

c. 5. Fear and Confidence. 

c. 6. Shame and Shamelessness. 

c. 7. Kindness and Unkindness. 

c. 8. Pity. 

c. 9. Indignation. 

c. 10. Envy. 

c. II. Emulation. 

c. 13. The various types of human character are next considered, in 
relation to the various emotions and moral qualities and to the various 
ages and fortunes. By ' ages ' are meant youth, the prime of life, and 
old age; by 'fortunes' are meant birth, wealth, power, and their 
opposites. The youthful type of character is thereupon depicted. 

c. 13. The character of elderly men. 

c. 14. The character of men in their prime.— The body is in its 
prime from thirty to five-and-thirty ; the mind about forty-nine. 

c. 15. The gifts of fortune by which human character is affected. 
First, good birth. 

c. 16. Second, wealth. 

c. 17. Third, power. 

c. 18. Retrospect, and glance forward. The forms of argument 
common to all oratory will next be discussed. 


c. 19. The four general lines of argument {koipo\ tottoi) are : (1) The 
Possible and Impossible ; (2) Fact Past ; (3) Fact Future j (4) Degree. 

c. 20. The two general modes of persuasion {koiuoi nia-Ttn) are : 
(i) the example {irapabityixa), (2) the enthymeme (Jpdvfiijfia) ; the maxim 
(yvoiHTj) being part of the enthymeme. Examples are either (a) 
historical parallels, or (i) invented parallels, viz. either (n) illustrations 
(napaPoXai), or (/3) fables (X0701), such as those of Aesop. Fables are 
suitable for popular addresses ; and they have this advantage, that they 
are comparatively easy to invent, whereas it is hard to find parallels 
among actual past events. 

c. 21. Use of maxims. A maxim is a general statement about 
questions of practical conduct. It is an incomplete enthymeme. Four 
kinds of maxims. Maxims should be used (a) by elderly rnen. and 
"{d) to controvert popular sayings. Advantages of maxims : (a) they 
enable a speaker to gratify his commonplace hearers by expressing as 
a universal truth the opinions which they themselves hold about 
particular cases ; (d) they invest a speech with moral character. 

c. 22. Enthymemes. In enthymemes we must not carry our reason- 
ing too far back, nor must we put in all the steps that lead to our 
conclusion. There are two kinds of enthymemes : (a) the demonstra- 
tive, formed by the conjunction of compatible propositions ; (6) the 
refutative, formed by the conjunction of incompatible propositions. 

c. 23. Enumeration of twenty-eight topics (lines of argument) 
on which enthymemes, demonstrative and refutative, can be based 
[see Index, under 'argument, lines of']. Two general remarks are 
added : {a) the refutative enthymeme has a greater reputation than 
the demonstrative, because within a small space it works out two 
opposing arguments, and arguments put side by side are clearer to the 
audience ; (d) of all syllogisms, whether refutative or demonstrative, 
those are most applauded of which we foresee the conclusions from the 
beginning, so long as they are not obvious at first sight — for part of 
the pleasure we feel is at our own intelligent anticipation ; or those 
which we follow well enough to see the point of them as soon as the 
last word has been uttered. 

c. 24. Nine topics of apparent, or sham, enthymemes [see Index, 
under ' fallacious arguments ']. 

c. 25. Refutation. An argument may be refuted either by a 
counter-syllogism or by bringing an objection. Objections may be 
raised in four ways : («) by directly attacking your opponent's own state- 
ment ; O) by putting forward another statement like it ; (y) by putting 
forward a statement contrary to it ; (5) by quoting previous decisions. 

c. 26. Correction of two errors, possible or actual : (i) Amplification 
and Depreciation do not constitute an element of enthymeme, 
in the sense of ' a line of enthymematic argument ' ; (2) refutative 


enthymemes are not a different species from constructive. This brings 
to an end the treatment of he thought-element of rhetoric — the 
way to invent and refute persuasive arguments. There remain the 
subjects of (A) style and (B) arrangement. 


c. I. (A) Style. It is not enough to know what to say ; we must also 
say it in the right way. Upon the subject of delivery (which presents 
itself here) no systematic treatise has been composed, though this art 
has much to do with oratory (as with poetry). The matter has, how- 
ever, been touched upon by Thrasymachus in his 'Appeals to Pity'. 
As to the place of style: the right thing in speaking really is that we 
should fight our case with no help beyond the bare facts ; and yet the 
arts of language cannot help having a small but real importance, what- 
ever it is we have to expound to others. Through the influence of the 
poets, the language of oratorical prose at first took a poetical colour, 
as in the case of Gorgias. But the language of prose is distinct from 
that of poetry ; and, further, the writers of tragic poetry itself have now 
given up those words, not used in ordinary talk, which adorned the 
early drama. 

c. 2. Still, in the main, the same definition and methods apply alike 
to poetical and to prose style. Style, to be good, must be cjear ; it 
must also be appropriate, avoiding both meanness and excess of 
dignity. How these qualities may be attained. Rare, compound, and 
invented words must be used sparingly in prose ; in which, over and 
above the regular and proper terms for things, metaphorical terms only 
can be used with advantage, and even these need care. The language of 
oratorical prose should, in fact, be like that of ordinary conversation. 
Some discussion of metaphor. 

c. 3. Four faults of prose style, with illustrative examples : (i) mis- 
use of compound words ; (2) employment of strange words; (3) long, 
unseasonable, or frequent epithets ; (4) inappropriate metaphors. 

c. 4. The simile is a full-blown metaphor. Similes are useful in 
prose as well as in verse ; but they must not be used often, since they are 
of the nature of poetry. Instances of simile, from Plato and the orators. 
Metaphors can easily be turned into similes, and similes into metaphors. 
The proportional [as defined in the Poetics, c. 21] metaphor must 
always apply reciprocally to either of its co-ordinate terms. 

c. 5. The foundation of good style is correctness of language, which 
is discussed under five heads: (i) right use of connecting words; 
(2) use of special, and not vague general, terms ; (3) avoidance of 
ambiguity; (4) observance of gender ; (5) correct indication of gram- 
matical number. A composition should be easy to read and therefore 
easy to deliver; it should avoid (i) uncertainties as to punctuation, 
(2) zeugma, (3) parenthesis. 


c. 6. Impressiveness of style. Six heads : (i) the use of a descrip- 
tion instead of a simple name ; (2) metaphors and epithets ; (3) plural 
for singular number ; (4) repetition of the article ; (5) connecting 
words ; (6) description by means of negation. 

c. 7. Appropriateness. An appropriate style will adapt itself to 
(1) the emotions of the hearers, (2) the character of the speaker, (3) the 
nature of the subject. Tact and judgement are needed in all varieties 
of oratory. 

c. 8. Prose rhythm. The form of the language should not be 
metrical, nor, on the other hand, without any rhythm at all. Of the 
various possible rhythms, the heroic is too grand, the iambic too 
ordinary, and the trochaic too like a riotous dance. The best rhythm 
for prose is the paean, since from this alone no definite metre arises. 
The paean — <^v^w should be used for the beginning, and the paean 
v^v_/v^— for the end, of a sentence. 

c. 9. Periodic style The language of prose must be either (i) free- 
running, like that of Herodotus ; or (2) compact (i. e. periodic). A 
period may be defined as a portion of speech that has in itself a 
beginning and an end, being at the same time not too big to be taken 
in at a glance. It may have one member (clause), or more than one. 
A period of more than one member may be either (a) simply divided, 
or (d) antithetical. Antithesis implies contrast of sense. Parisosis 
makes the two members of a period equal in length. Paromoeosis 
makes the first or last words of both members like each other. 
Homoeoteleiiton denotes similarity in terminations only. 

c. 10. Smart and popular sayings. Three chief features of these 
clever, pointed sayings are: (i) antithesis, (2) metaphor, and (3) 
actuality or vividness (i. e. the power of ' setting the scene before our 
eyes '). 

c. 11. The graphic power of ' setting things before the eyes ' implies 
the use of expressions that represent objects as in a state of activity : 
Homer often gives metaphorical life to lifeless things in this fashion. 
A touch of surprise also contributes to liveliness. People feel they 
have learnt something ; hence the pleasure given by apophthegms, 
riddles, and puns. Similes, proverbs, and hyperboles also find a place 
here, being related to metaphors. 

c. 12, Each kind of rhetoric has its own appropriate style. The 
style of written prose is not that of spoken oratory, nor are those of 
political and forensic speaking the same. The written style is the 
more finished : the spoken better admits of dramatic delivery — alike 
the kind of oratory that reflects character and the kind that stirs 
emotion. The style of oratory addressed to public assemblies 
resembles scene-painting. In the one and the other, high finish in 
detail is superfluous and seems better away. The forensic style is 


more highly finished. Ceremonial oratory is the most literary, for 
it is meant to be read ; and next to it forensic oratory. To analyse 
style still further, and add that it must be agreeable or magnificent, is 
useless ; for why should it have these traits any more than * restraint ', 
' liberality ', or any other moral excellence ? 

c. 13. (B) Arrangement. A speech has two essential parts : statement 
and proof. To these may be added introduction and epilogue. 

c. 14. Introduction. The introduction corresponds to the prologue 
in poetry and the prelude in flute-music. The most essential function 
and distinctive property of the introduction is to indicate the aim of the 
speech. An introduction may (i) excite or allay prejudice; (2) exalt 
or depreciate. In a political speech an introduction is seldom found, 
for the subject is usually familiar to the audience. 

c. 15. Prejudice. The various lines of argument suitable for exciting 
or allaying prejudice. 

c. 16. Narration, (i) In ceremonial oratory, narration should, as a 
rule, not be continuous but intermittent : variety is pleasant, and the 
facts in a celebrity's praise are usually well known. (2) In forensic 
oratory, the current rule that the narration should be, rapid is wrong: 
tightness consists neither in rapidity nor in conciseness, but in the 
happy mean. The defendant will make less use of narration than 
the plaintiff. (3) In political oratory there is least opening for narra- 
tion ; nobody can narrate what has not yet happened. If there is 
narration at all, it will be of past events, the recollection of which will 
help the hearers to make better plans for the future. Or it may be 
employed to attack some one's character, or to eulogize him. 

c 17. Arguments. The duty of the Arguments is to attempt 
conclusive proofs, (i) In forensic oratory, the question in dispute will 
fall under one of four heads : [a) the fact, (d) the existence of injury, 
(c) the amount of injury, (d) the justification. (2) In ceremonial 
oratory, the facts themselves will usually be taken on trust, and the 
speaker will maintain, say, the nobility or the utility of the deeds in 
question. (3) In political oratory, it will be urged that a proposal 
is impracticable ; or that, though practicable, it is unjust, or will do no 
good, or is not so important as its proposer thinks. Argument by 
'example' is highly suitable for political oratory, argument uy ' enthy- 
meme ' better suits forensic. Enthymemes should not be used in 
unbroken succession; they should be interspersed with other matter. 
' If you have proofs to bring forward, bring them forward, and your 
moral discourse as well ; if you have no enthymemes, then fall back 
upon moral discourse : after all, it is more fitting for a good man to 
display himself as an honest fellow than as a subtle reasoner.' Hints 
as to the order in which arguments should be presented. As to 
character : you cannot well say complimentary things about yourself 


or abusive things about another, hut you can put such remarks into 
the mouth of some third person. 

c. i8. Interrogation and Jests. The best moment to employ 
interrogation is when your opponent has so answered one question that 
the putting of just one more lands him in absurdity. In replying to 
questions, you must meet them, if they are ambiguous, by drawing 
reasonable distinctions, not by a curt answer. — Jests are supposed to 
be of some service in controversy. Gorgias said that you should kill 
your opponents' earnestness with jesting and their jesting with earnest- 
ness ; in which he was right. Jests have been classified in the Poetics. 
' Some are becoming to a gentleman, others are not ; see that you 
choose such as become you. Irony better befits a gentleman than 
buffoonery ; the ironical man jokes to amuse himself, the buffoon to 
arnuse other people.' 

c. 19. Epilogue (Peroration, Conclusion). This has four parts. 
You must (i) make the audience well disposed towards yourself and 
ill disposed towards your opponent, (2) magnify or minimize the leading 
facts, (3) excite the required kind of emotion in your hearers, and 
(4) refresh their memories by means of a recapitulation. — In your 
closing words you may dispense with conjunctions, and thereby mark 
the difference between the oration and the peroration : ' I have done. 
You have heard me. The facts are before you. I ask for your judge- 


I Rhetoric is the counterpart of Dialectic.^ Both alike 1354^ 
are concerned with such things as come, more or less, with- 
in the general ken of all men and belong to no definite 
science. Accordingly all men make use, more or less, of 
both; for to a certain extent all men attempt to discuss 
statements and to maintain them, to defend themselves and 5 
to attack others. Ordinary people do this either at random 
or through practice and from acquired habit. Both ways 
being possible, the subject can plainly be handled syste- 
matically,^ for it is possible to inquire the reason why 
some speakers succeed through practice and others sponta- «> 
neously; and every one will at once agree that such an 
'inquiry is the function of an art. 

Now, the framers of the current treatises on rhetoric have 
constructed but a small portion of that art. The modes of 
persuasion ^ are the only true constituents of the art : every- 
thing else is merely accessory. These writers, however, say 
nothing about enthymemes, which are the substance of 
rhetorical persuasion, but deal mainly with non-essentials. 15 
The arousing of prejudice, pity, anger, and similar emotions 
has nothing to do with the essential facts, but is merely 

^ ' Rhetoric ' and ' Dialectic ' may be roughly Englished as ' the art 
of public speaking' and 'the art of logical discussion'. Aristotle's 
philosophical definition of * Rhetoric ' is given at the beginning of c. 2. 

' 68a> noKiv, Bywater : obomoif'iv, A" pr. 

' Aristotle here means by mWeis those attempts at logical argument 
on which he would himself like to see Rhetoric rely. In the next 
chapter, 1355** 35-1356*4, he gives to the term the wide range it had 
in current rhetorical usage, and concludes with a reference to the 
argumentative side: aX 8e tv avrw tw \&ya bia rov dfiKvx'ivai ^ <f)aiv(a6ai 
ttLKvvvai. A uniform rendering of the word is hardly possible, but at 
the outset it is important to stress Aristotle's fundamental view (im- 
plied etymologically in the term nlarfis) that, from the nature of its 
materials. Rhetoric is, in general, persuasive rather than fully demon- 
strative. When in later portions of the treatise a single-word rendering 
is given, ' arguments ' will be preferred to ' proofs ', as avoiding 
confusion with a7roS<i^«s and TfKfirjpia. 
e4B-io B 


a personal appeal to the man who is judging the case. 
Consequently if the rules for trials which are now laid down 

ao in some states — especially in well-governed states — were 
applied everywhere, such people would have nothing to say. 
All men, no doubt, think that the laws should prescribe such 
rules, but some, as in the court of Areopagus, give practical 
effect to their thoughts and forbid talk about non-essentials. 
This is sound law and custom. It is not right to pervert 

35 the judge ^ by moving him to anger or envy or pity — one 
might as well warp a carpenter's rule before using it. Again, 
a litigant has clearly nothing to do but to show that the 
alleged fact is so or is not so, that it has or has not happened. 
As to whether a thing is important or unimportant, just or 
unjust, the judge must surely refuse to take his instruc- 

30 tions from the litigants : he must decide for himself all such 
points as the law-giver has not already defined for him. 

Now, it is of great moment that well-drawn laws should 
themselves define all the points they possibly can and 
leave as few as may be to the decision of the judges ; and 
this for several reasons. First, to find one man, or a few 
1354'' nien, who are sensible persons and capable of legislating 
and administering justice is easier than to find a large 
number. Next, laws are made after long consideration, 
whereas decisions in the courts are given at short notice, 
which makes it hard for those who try the case to satisfy 
the claims of justice and expediency. The weightiest reason 

5 of all is that the decision of the lawgiver is not particular but 
prospective and general, whereas members of the assembly 
and the jury find it their duty to decide on definite cases 
brought before them. They will often have allowed them- 
selves to be so much influenced by feelings of friendship or 

10 hatred or self-interest that they lose any clear vision of the 
truth and have their judgement obscured by considerations 
of personal pleasure or pain. In general, then, the judge 
should, we say, be allowed to decide as few things as pos- 
sible. But questions as to whether something has happened 
or has not happened, will be or will not be, is or is not, 

^ Here, and in what follows, the English reader should understand 
'judge' in abroad sense, including 'jurymen' and others who 'judge'. 

BOOK I. I 1354*' 

must of necessity be left to the judge, since the lawgiver i.;; 
cannot foresee them. If this is so, it is evident that any 
one who lays down rules about other matters, such as 
what must be the contents of the ' introduction ' or the 
'narration' or any of the other divisions of a speech, is 
theorizing about non-essentials as if they belonged to the 
art. The only question with which these writers here 
deal is how to put the judge into a given frame of mind. 20 
About the orator's proper modes of persuasion they have 
nothing to tell us ; nothing, that is, about how to gain skill 
in enthymemes. 

Hence it comes that, although the same systematic 
principles apply to political as to forensic oratory,^ and 
although the former is a nobler business, and fitter for a 
citizen, than that which concerns the relations of private 25 
individuals, these authors say nothing about political oratory, 
but try, one and all, to write treatises on the way to plead 
in court. The reason for this is that in political oratory 
there is less inducement to talk about non-essentials. 
Political oratory is less given to unscrupulous practices 
than forensic, because it treats of wider issues. In a political 3° 
debate the man who is forming a judgement is making a deci- 
sion about his own vital interests. There is no need, there- 
fore, to prove anything except that the facts are what the 
supporter of a measure maintains they are. In forensic 
oratory this is not enough ; to conciliate the listener is what 
pays here. It is other people's affairs that are to be decided, 
so that the judges, intent on their own satisfaction and lis- 
tening with partiality, surrender themselves to the disputants 
instead of judging between them. Hence in many places, as 1355° 
we have said already,^ irrelevant speaking is forbidden in the 
law-courts : in the public assembly those who have to form 
a judgement are themselves well able to guard against that. 

It is clear, then, that rhetorical study, in its strict sense,^ 
is concerned with the modes of persuasion. Persuasion is 

' The words ' orator ' and * oratory ' have the advantage of brevity, 
but the reader will bear in mind that ' public speaker ' and ' public 
speaking ' are in some ways nearer the Greek conceptioi» of * rhetor' 
and ' rhetoric '. 

"^ 1354*22. ' On its 'technical' side. 

B 2 


5 clearly a sort of demonstration, since we are most fully 
persuaded when we consider a thing to have been demon- 
strated. The orator's demonstration is an enthymeme, and 
this is, in general, the most effective of the modes of 
persuasion. The enthymeme is a sort of syllogism, and the 
consideration of syllogisms of all kinds, without distinction, 
is the business of dialectic, either of dialectic as a whole or 

lo of one of its branches. It follows plainly, therefore, that he 
who is best able to see how and from what elements a 
syllogism is produced will also be best skilled in the enthy- 
meme, when he has further learnt what its subject-matter is 
and in what respects it differs from the syllogism of strict 
logic. The true and the approximately true are apprehended 

15 by the same faculty ; it may also be noted that men have a 
sufficient natural instinct for what is true, and usually do 
arrive at the truth. Hence the man who makes a good guess 
at truth is likely to make a good guess at probabilities. 

It has now been shown that the ordinary writers on 
rhetoric treat of non-essentials ; it has also been shown why 

20 they have inclined more towards the forensic branch of 

Rhetoric is useful (i) because things that are true and 
things that are just have a natural tendency to prevail over 
their opposites, so that if the decisions of judges are not what 
they ought to be, the defeat must be due to the speakers 
themselves, and they must be blamed accordingly. More- 
over, (2) before some audiences not even the possession of 

25 the exactest knowledge will make it easy for what we say to 
produce conviction. For argument based on knowledge im- 
plies instruction, and there are people whom one cannot 
instruct. Here, then, we must use, as our modes of per- 
suasion and argument, notions possessed by everybody, as 
we observed in the Topics ^ when dealing with the way to 
handle a popular audience.'^ Further, C3) we must be able to 

* Topics^ i. 2, 101* 30-4. 

' The passage ' Rhetoric is useful . . . audience ' is quoted by 
Uionysius of Halicamassus in his First Letter to Ammaeus, c. 6. 
Other references to Aristotle and the Rhetoric will be found in Roberts' 
edition of ' Dionysius of Halicamassus, The Three Literary LMters \ 
pp. 25-7, 52-85, 161-7. The First LMter discusses the chronology 
ot Aristotle's life and the date of his Rhetoric. 

BOOK I. I 1355- 

employ persuasion, just as strict reasoning can be employed, 
on opposite sides of a question, not in order that we may in 30 
practice employ it in both ways (for we must not make people 
believe what is wrong), but in order that we may see clearly 
what the facts are, and that, if another man argues unfairly, 
we on our part may be able to confute him.^ No other of 
the arts draws opposite conclusions : dialectic and rhetoric 35 
alone do this. Both these arts draw opposite conclusions 
impartially. Nevertheless, the underlying facts do not lend 
themselves equally well to the contrary views. No ; things 
that are true and things that are better are, by their nature, 
practically always easier to prove and easier to believe in. 
Again, (4) it is absurd to hold that a man ought to be 1355** 
ashamed of being unable to defend himself with his limbs, 
but not of being unable to defend himself with speech 
and reason,^ when the use of rational speech is more 
distinctive of a human being than the use of his limbs. 
And if it be objected that one who uses such power of 
speech unjustly might do great harm, that is a charge which 
may be made in common against all good things except 
virtue, and above all against the things that are most useful, 5 
as strength, health, wealth, generalship. A man can confer 
the greatest of benefits by a right use of these, and inflict 
the greatest of injuries by using them wrongly. 

It is clear, then, that rhetoric is not bound up with a single 
definite class of subjects, but is as universal as dialectic ; it 
is clear, also, that it is useful. It is clear, further, that its 
function is not simply to succeed in persuading, but rather 10 
to discover the means of coming as near such success as the 
circumstances of each particular case allow. In this it 
resembles all other arts. For example, it is not the function 
of medicine simply to make a man quite healthy, but to put 
him as far as may be on the road to health ; it is possible to 
give excellent treatment even to those who can never enjoy 
sound health. Furthermore, it is plain that it is the function 
of one and the same art to discern the real and the apparent 15 

* Reading ton Xoyoir aiToi in 1. 33. 

' Xdyof, as comprising both ratio and oratios is not easily translated 
with brevity. 


means of persuasion, just as it is the function of dialectic to 
discern the real and the apparent syllogism. What makes 
a man a ' sophist' is not his faculty, but his moral purpose. 
In rhetoric, however, the term ' rhetorician ' may describe 
either the speaker's knowledge of the art, or his moral 

20 purpose.^ In dialectic it is different: a man is a 'sophist' 
because he has a certain kind of moral purpose, a ' dialecti- 
cian ' in respect, not of his moral purpose, but of his faculty. 
Let us now try to give some account of the systematic 
principles of Rhetoric itself — of the right method and means 
of succeeding in the object we set before us. We must 
make as it were a fresh start, and before going further define 

35 what rhetoric is. 

Rhetoric may be defined as the faculty of observing in 3 
any given case the available means of persuasion. This 
is not a function of any other art. Every other art can 
instruct or persuade about its own particular subject- 
matter ; for instance, medicine about what is healthy and 

30 unhealthy, geometry about the properties of magnitudes, 
arithmetic about numbers, and the same is true of the other 
arts and sciences. But rhetoric we look upon as the power 
of observing the means of persuasion on almost any subject 
presented to us ; and that is why we say that, in its technical 

35 character,'^ it is not concerned with any special or definite 
class of subjects. 

Of the modes of persuasion some belong strictly to the 
art of rhetoric and some do not.^ By the latter I mean 
such things as are not supplied by the speaker but are there 
at the outset — witnesses, evidence given under torture, 
written contracts, and so on. By the former I mean such 
as we can ourselves construct by means of the principles of 
rhetoric. The one kind has merely to be used, the other 
has to be invented. 

' i. e. there is no special Greek term to denote the sophistical 
ihetorician, whereas the sophistical dialectician has the name of 
* sophist '. piyTwp, in fact, can mean either a trained speaker ox a tricky 

^ ' In its technical character ' = ' as an art (Wxvv) '. 

' ' Some are technical, others non-technical'. 

BOOK I. 2 1356* 

Of the modes of persuasion furnished by the spoken word I3j6" 
there are three kinds. The first kind depends on the 
personal character of the speaker ; the second on putting 
the audience into a certain ^ frame of mind ; the third on 
the proof, or apparent proof, provided by the words of the 
speech itself. Persuasion is achieved by the speaker's 
personal character when the speech is so spoken as to make 5 
us think him credible. We believe good men more fully 
and more readily than others : this is true generally 
whatever the question is, and absolutely true where exact 
certainty is impossible and opinions are divided. This 
kind of persuasion, like the others, should be achieved 
by what the speaker says, not by what people think of his 
character before he begins to speak. It is not true, as some 10 
writers assume in their treatises on rhetoric, that the 
personal goodness revealed by the speaker contributes 
nothing to his power of persuasion ; on the contrary, his 
character may almost be called the most effective means 
of persuasion he possesses. Secondly, persuasion may 
come through the hearers, when the speech stirs their 
emotions. Our judgements when we are pleased and friendly 15 
are not the same as when we are pained and hostile. It is 
towards producing these effects, as we maintain, that 
present-day writers on rhetoric direct the whole of their 
efforts. This subject shall be treated in detail when we 
come to speak of the emotions.^ Thirdly, persuasion is 
effected through the speech itself when we have proved a 
truth or an apparent truth by means of the persuasive ao 
arguments suitable to the case in question. 

There are, then, these three means of effecting persuasion. 
The man who is to be in command of them must, it is clear, 
be able (i) to reason logically, (2) to understand human 
character and goodness in their various forms, and (3) to 
understand the emotions — that is, to name them and 
describe them,^ to know their causes and the way in which 
they are excited. It thus appears that rhetoric is an 35 
offshoot of dialectic and also of ethical studies. Ethical 

' i.e. the right, fit, required frame of mind. ^ ii, cc. 2-1 1. 

' To state their nature and quality, their genus and differentia. 


studies may fairly be called political ; and for this reason 
rhetoric masquerades as political science, and the professors 
of it as political experts— sometimes from want of education, 
sometimes from ostentation, sometimes owing to other 

30 human failings. As a matter of fact, it is a branch of 
dialectic and similar to it, as we said at the outset.^ Neither 
rhetoric nor dialectic is the scientific study of any one 
separate subject : both are faculties for providing arguments. 
This is perhaps a sufficient account of their scope and of 

35 how they are related to each other. 

With regard to the persuasion achieved by proof or 
1356^ apparent proof: just as in dialectic there is induction on 
the one hand and syllogism or apparent syllogism on the 
other, so it is in rhetoric. The example is an induction, the 
enthymeme is a syllogism, and the apparent enthymeme is 
an apparent syllogism. I call the enthymeme a rhetorical 

5 syllogism, and the example a rhetorical induction. Every 
one who effects persuasion through proof does in fact use 
either enthymemes or examples : there is no other way. 
And since every one who proves anything at all is bound to 
use either syllogisms or inductions (and this is clear to us from 
the Analytics^), it must follow that enthymemes are syllo- 

10 gisms and examples are inductions. The difference between 
example and enthymeme is made plain by the passages in 
the Topics^ where induction and syllogism have already 
been discussed. When we base the proof of a proposition 
on a number of similar cases, this is induction in dialectic, 
example in rhetoric ; when it is shown that, certain proposi- 

15 tions being true, a further and quite distinct proposition 
must also be true in consequence, whether invariably or 
usually, this is called syllogism in dialectic, enthymeme in 
rhetoric. It is plain also that each of these types of oratory 
has its advantages. Types of oratory, I say : for what has 
been said in the Methodics'^ applies equally well here; in 

20 some oratorical styles examples prevail, in others enthy- 
memes ; and in like manner, some orators are better at the 

^ i. 1. 1354* I. "^ Anal. Pr.n. 21,2^; Anal.Post.\.\. Cp. dS'^lS- 

' Top. i. I and 12. 

* A lost logical treatise of Aristotle; but cp. Bonitz' Index, p. 101''. 

BOOK I. 2 1356'' 

former and some at the latter. Speeches that rely on 
examples are as persuasive as the other kind, but those 
which rely on enthymemes excite the louder applause. The 
sources of examples and enthymemes,* and their proper uses, 
we will discuss later.'^ Our next step is to define the 35 
processes themselves more clearly. 

A statement is persuasive and credible either because it 
is directly self-evident or because it appears to be proved 
from other statements that are so. In either case it is 
persuasive because there is somebody whom it persuades. 
But none of the arts theorize about individual cases. 
Medicine, for instance, does not theorize about what will help 
to cure Socrates or Callias, but only about what will help to 30 
cure any or all of a given class of patients : this alone is its 
business : individual cases are so infinitely various that no 
systematic knowledge of them is possible. In the same 
way the theory of rhetoric is concerned not with what 
seems probable to a given individual like Socrates or 
Hippias, but with what seems probable to men of a given 
type ; and this is true of dialectic also. Dialectic does not 35 
construct its syllogisms out of any haphazard materials, such 
as the fancies of crazy people, but out of materials that call 
for discussion ; and rhetoric, too, draws upon the regular 
subjects of debate. The duty of rhetoric is to deal with 1357' 
such matters as we deliberate upon without arts or systems 
to guide us, in the hearing of persons who cannot take in at 
a glance a complicated argument, or follow a long chain of 
reasoning. The subjects of our deliberation are such as 
seem to present us with alternative possibilities : about 5 
things that could not have been, and cannot now or in the 
future be, other than they are, nobody who takes them to 
be of this nature wastes his time in deliberation. 

It is possible to form syllogisms and draw conclusions 
from the results of previous syllogisms ; or, on the other 
hand, from premisses which have not been thus proved, and 
at the same time are so little accepted that they call for 10 

^ Or 'The reason of this', \{ avrwv is omitted with Muretus' transla- 
tion and Bywater. 
^ ii, cc. 20-4."^ 


proof. Reasonings of the former kind will necessarily be 
hard to follow owing to their length, for we assume an 
* audience of untrained thinkers ; those of the latter kind will 
fail to win assent, because they are based on premisses that 
are not generally admitted or believed. 

The enthymeme and the example must, then, deal with 

15 what is in the main contingent, the example being an 
induction, and the enthymeme a syllogism, about such 
matters. The enthymeme must consist of few propositions, 
fewer often than those which make up the normal syllogism. 
For if any of these propositions is a familiar fact, there is no 
need even to mention it ; the hearer adds it himself. Thus, 
to show that Dorieus has been victor in a contest for which 

30 the prize is a crown, it is enough to say ' For he has been 
victor in the Olympic games ', without adding ' And in the 
Olympic games the prize is a crown ', a fact which everybody 

There are few facts of the ' necessary ' type that can form 
the basis of rhetorical syllogisms.^ Most of the things 
about which we make decisions, and into which therefore 

25 we inquire, present us with alternative possibilities. For it 
is about our actions that we deliberate and inquire, and all 
our actions have a contingent character; hardly any of 
them are determined by necessity. Again, conclusions that 
state what is merely usual or possible must be drawn from 
premisses that do the same, just as ' necessary ' conclusions 
must be drawn from ' necessary ' premisses ; this too is clear 

30 to us from the Analytics} It is evident, therefore, that the 
propositions forming the basis of enthymemes, though some 
of them may be 'necessary*, will most of them be only 
usually true. Now the materials of enthymemes are 
Probabilities and Signs, which we can see must correspond 
respectively with the propositions that are generally and 
those that are necessarily true. A Probability is a thing 

35 that usually happens ; not, however, as some definitions 
would suggest, anything whatever that usually happens, but 
only if it belongs to the class of the 'contingent' or 

' Retaining the manuscript reading t'^ mv, — ' materials ', ' sources '. 
' An. Pr. i. 8, 12-14, 27. 

BOOK I. 2 1357* 

' variable *. It bears the same relation to that in respect of 
which it is probable ^ as the universal bears to the particular. 
Of Signs, one kind bears the same relation to the statement ISS?** 
it supports as the particular bears to the universal, the 
other the same as the universal bears to the particular. 
The infallible kind is a 'complete proof [rfK^ripLov) ; the 
fallible kind has no specific name. By infallible signs I 
mean those on which syllogisms proper may be based : and 5 
this shows us why this kind of Sign is called 'complete 
proof : when people think that what they have said cannot 
be refuted, they then tnink that they are bringing forward 
a 'complete proof, meaning that the matter has now been 
demonstrated and completed {■n^-mpacrixivov) ; for the word 
■nipas has the same meaning (of ' end ' or ' boundary ') as the 
word TiKfxap in the ancient tongue. Now the one kind of 10 
Sign (that which bears to the proposition it supports the 
relation of particular to universal) may be illustrated thus. 
Suppose it were said, ' The fact that Socrates was wise and 
just is a sign that the wise are just '. Here we certainly 
have a Sign ; but even though the proposition be true, the 
argument is refutable, since it does not form a syllogism. 
Suppose, on the other hand, it were said, 'The fact that he 
has a fever is a sign that he is ill ', or, ' The fact that she is 15 
giving milk is a sign that she has lately borne a child '. 
Here v;e have the infallible kind of Sign, the only kind that 
constitutes a complete proof, since it is the only kind that, 
if the particular statement is true, is irrefutable. The other 
kind of Sign, that which bears to the proposition it supports 
the relation of universal to particular, might be illustrated 
by saying, ' The fact that he breathes fast is a sign that he 
has a fever '. This argument also is refutable, even if the 
statement about the fast breathing be true, since a man may 20 
breathe hard without having a fever. 

It has, then, been stated above what is the nature of 
a Probability, of a Sign, and of a complete proof, and what 
are the differences between them. In the Analytics"^ a. more 

* i. e. bears the same relation to the conclusion to be reached : ' to 
that to which its general probability is directed'— to the particular 
probable case which has to be proved. 

"^ An. Pr. ii. 27. 


explicit description has been given of these points ; it is 
there shown why some of these reasonings can be put 
into syllogisms and some cannot. 

35 The * example ' has already been described as one kind of 
induction ; and the special nature of the subject-matter that 
distinguishes it from the other kinds has also been stated 
above. Its relation to the proposition it supports is not 
that of part to whole, nor whole to part, nor whole to whole, 
but of part to part, or like to like. When two statements 
are of the same order, but one is more familiar than the 

30 other, the former is an ' example '. The argument may, for 
instance, be that Dionysius, in asking as he does for a 
bodyguard, is scheming to make himself a despot. For in 
the past Peisistratus kept asking for a bodyguard in order 
to carry out such a scheme, and did make himself a despot 
as soon as he got it ; and so did Theagenes at Megara ; and 
in the same way all other instances known to the speaker 
are made into examples, in order to show what is not yet 

35 known, that Dionysius has the same purpose in making the 
same request : all these being instances of the one general 
principle, that a man who asks for a bodyguard is scheming 
J358* to make himself a despot.^ We have now described the 
sources of those means of persuasion which are popularly 
supposed to be demonstrative. 

There is an important distinction between two sorts of 
enthymemes that has been wholly overlooked by almost 
everybody — one that also subsists between the syllogisms 
treated of in dialectic. One sort of enthymeme really 

6 belongs to rhetoric, as one sort of syllogism really belongs 
to dialectic ; but the other sort really belongs to other arts 
and faculties, whether to those we already exercise or to 
those we have not yet acquired. Missing this distinction, 
people fail to notice that the more correctly they handle 
their particular subject the further they are getting away 
from pure rhetoric or dialectic. This statement will be 

10 clearer if expressed more fully. I mean that the proper 
subjects of dialectical and rhetorical syllogisms are the 

* Lit. * that it is the man who is scheming , . . who asks . . . (and 
nobody else) '. The Greek word-order makes this plain. 

BOOK I 2 1358' 

things with which we say the regular or universal Lines of 

Argument^ are concerned, that is to say those h'nes of 

argument that apply equally to questions of right conduct, 

natural science, politics, and many other things that have 

nothing to do with one another. Take, for instance, the 

line of argument concerned with ' the more or less '?■ On 

this line of argument it is equally easy to base a syllogism 15 

or enthymeme about any of what nevertheless are essentially 

disconnected subjects— right conduct, natural science, or 

anything else whatever. But there are also those special 

Lines of Argument which are based on such propositions 

as apply only to particular groups or classes of things. 

Thus there are propositions about natural science on which 

it is impossible to base any enthymeme or syllogism about 

ethics, and other propositions about ethics on which nothing 

can be based about natural science. The same principle 20 

applies throughout. The general Lines of Argument have 

no special subject-matter, and therefore will not increase 

our understanding of any particular class of things. On the 

other hand, the better the selection one makes of propositions 

suitable for special Lines of Argument,^ the nearer one 

comes, unconsciously, to setting up a science that is distinct 

from dialectic and rhetoric. One may succeed in stating 

the required principles, but one's science will be no longer 25 

dialectic or rhetoric, but the science to which the principles 

thus discovered belong. Most enthymemes are in fact 

based upon these particular or special Lines of Argument; 

comparatively few on the common or general kind. As in 

the Topics^ therefore, so in this work, we must distinguish, 

in dealing with enthymemes, the special and the general 

Lines of Argument on which they are to be founded. By 

special Lines of Argument I mean the propositions peculiar 

to each several class of things, by general those common to 

all classes alike. We may begin with the special Lines of 

Argument. But, first of all, let us classify rhetoric into its 

varieties. Having distinguished these we may deal with 

» Or Topics, Commonplaces. * i. e. the topic oi degree. 

^ Comma after d( and after Trporaaus : no comma after <KX«y;jTni : no 
bracket : ^fXnov with some manuscripts. 
* Cp. Top. i. 10, 14; iii. 5 ; Sop/i. El. 9. 


them one by one, and try to discover the elements of which 
35 each is composed, and the propositions each must employ. 

Rhetoric falls into three divisions, determined by the 3 
three classes of listeners to speeches. For of the three 
elements in speech-making — speaker, subject, and person 
addressed — it is the last one, the hearer, that determines the 
1358'' speech's end and object. The hearer must be either a judge, 
with a decision to make about things past or future, or an 
observer.^ A member of the assembly decides about future 
5 events, a juryman about past events : while those who 
merely decide on the orator's skill are observers.- From 
this it follows that there are three divisions of oratory — 
(i) political, (2) forensic, and (3) the ceremonial oratory of 

Political speaking urges us either to do or not to do 
something : one of these two courses is always taken by 
private counsellors, as well as by men who address public 

10 assemblies. Forensic speaking either attacks or defends 
somebody : one or other of these two things must always be 
done by the parties in a case. The ceremonial oratory of 
display either praises or censures somebody. These three 
kinds of rhetoric refer to three different kinds of time. The 
political orator is concerned with the future : it is about 

15 things to be done hereafter that he advises, for or against. 
The party in a case at lav/ is concerned with the past ; one 
man accuses the other, and the other defends himself, with 
reference to things already done. The ceremonial orator is, 
properly speaking, concerned with the present, since all 
men praise or blame in view of the state of things existing 
at the time, though they often find it useful also to recall 

20 the past and to make guesses at the future. 

* dftopos : a mere onlooker, present at a show, where he decides no 
grave political or legal issue (cp. 1391^' 16-20) and plays no higher 
role than that of speech taster or oratorical connoisseur. — Political has 
been preferred to deliberative, as being clearer to the English reader. 
The oratory of the ' (parliamentary) counsellor ' is meant. 

^ Omitting Roemer's brackets. 

^ Or : deliberative (advisory), legal, and epideictic — the oratory 
respectively of parliamentary assemblies, of law-courts, and of cere- 
monial occasions when there is an element of 'display*, 'show', 
' declamation ', and the result is a ' set speech ' or ' harangue ', 

BOOK I. 3 1358'' 

Rhetoric has three distinct ends in view, one for each 
of its three kinds. The political orator aims at estab- 
lishing the expediency or the harmfulness of a proposed 
course of action ; if he urges its acceptance, he does so on 
the ground that it will do good ; if he urges its rejection, he 
does so on the ground that it will do harm ; and all other 
points, such as whether the proposal is just or unjust, honour- 
able or dishonourable, he brings in as subsidiary and 25 
relative to this main consideration. Parties in a law-case 
aim at establishing the justice or injustice of some action, 
and they too bring in all other points as subsidiary and 
relative to this one. Those who praise or attack a man 
aim at proving him worthy of honour or the reverse, and 
they too treat all other considerations with reference to 
this one. 

That the three kinds of rhetoric do aim respectively at 
the three ends we have mentioned is shown by the fact that 30 
speakers will sometimes not try to establish anything else. 
Thus, the litigant will sometimes not deny that a thing has 
happened or that he has done harm. But that he is guilty 
of injustice he will never admit ; otherwise there would be 
no need of a trial. So too, political orators often make any 
concession short of admitting that they are recommending 
their hearers to take an inexpedient course or not to take an 35 
expedient one. The question whether it is not unjust for a 
city to enslave its innocent neighbours often does not trouble 
them at all. In like manner those who praise or censure a 
man do not consider whether his acts have been expedient 1359^ 
or not, but often make it a ground of actual praise that he 
has neglected his own interest to do what was honourable. 
Thus, they praise Achilles because he championed his fallen 
friend Patroclus, though he knew that this meant death, 
and that otherwise he need not die : yet while to die thus 
was the nobler thing for him to do, the expedient thing was 5 
to live on.^ 

It is evident from what has been said that it is these three 
subjects, more than any others, about which the orator 
must be able to have propositions at his command. Now 
' Homer, Ilicui, xviii. 97 ff. 


the propositions of Rhetoric are Complete Proofs, Proba- 
bilities, and Signs. Every kind of syllogism is composed of 

lo propositions, and the enthymeme is a particular kind of 
syllogism composed of the aforesaid propositions.^ 

Since only possible actions, and not impossible ones, can 
ever have been done in the past or the present,^ and since 
things which have not occurred, or will not occur, also can- 
not have been done or be going to be done, it is necessary 

15 for the political, the forensic, and the ceremonial speaker 
alike to be able to have at their command propositions 
about the possible and the impossible, and about whether a 
thing has or has not occurred, will or will not occur. Further, 
all men, in giving praise or blame, in urging us to accept or 
reject proposals for action, in accusing others or defending 
themselves, attempt not only to prove the points mentioned 

20 but also to show that the good or the harm, the honour or 
disgrace, the justice or injustice, is great or small, either 
absolutely or relatively ; and therefore it is plain that we 
must also have at our command propositions about great- 
ness or smallness and the greater or the lesser — propositions 
both universal and particular. Thus, we must be able to 
say which is the greater or lesser good, the greater or lesser 

25 act of justice or injustice ; and so on. 

Such, then, are the subjects regarding which we are 
inevitably bound to master the propositions relevant to 
them. We must now discuss each particular class of these 
subjects in turn, namely those dealt with in political, in 
ceremonial, and lastly in legal, oratory. 

30 First, then, we must ascertain what are the kinds of 4 
things, good or bad, about which the political orator offers 
counsel. For he does not deal with all things, but only 
with such as may or may not take place. Concerning 
things which exist or will exist inevitably, or which cannot 
possibly exist or take place, no counsel can be given. Nor, 
again, can counsel be given about the whole class of things 

^ i. e. of Complete Proofs, Probabilities, and Signs relating to the 
three subjects of the expedient, the just, and the noble. 

* Reading nenpaxdat with A'= : the reference being to panegyrical 
oratory in the first case, to forensic in the second. Cp. Scholia, p. 12 
(ed. Rabe). 

BOOK I. 4 1359 

which may or may not take place ; for this class includes 
some good things that occur naturally, and some that occur 35 
by accident ; and about these it is useless to offer counsel. 
Clearly counsel can only be given on matters about which 
people deliberate ; ^ matters, namely, that ultimately depend 
on ourselves, and which we have it in our power to set going. 
For we turn a thing over in our mind until we have reached 
the point of seeing whether we can do it or not. 1359* 

Now to enumerate and classify accurately the usual 
subjects of public business, and further to frame, as far as 
possible, true definitions of them, is a task which we must 
not attempt on the present occasion. For it does not belong 5 
to the art of rhetoric, but to a more instructive art and a more 
real branch of knowledge ; and as it is, rhetoric has been 
given a far wider subject-matter than strictly belongs to it. 
The truth is, as indeed we have said already,^ that rhetoric is 
a combination of the science of logic and of the ethical 10 
branch of politics ; and it is partly like dialectic, partly like 
sophistical reasoning. But the more we try to make either 
dialectic or rhetoric not, what they really are, practical 
faculties, but sciences, the more we shall inadvertently be 
destroying their true nature ; for we shall be re-fashioning 15 
them and shall be passing into the region of sciences dealing 
with definite subjects rather than simply with words and 
forms of reasoning. Even here, however, we will mention 
those points which it is of practical importance to distinguish, 
their fuller treatment falling naturally to political science. 

The main matters on which all men deliberate and on 
which political speakers make speeches are some five in -^^ 
number : ways and means, war and peace, national defence, 
imports and exports, and legislation. 

As to Ways and Means, then, the intending speaker will 
need to know the number and extent of the country's sources 
of revenue, so that, if any is being overlooked, it may be -"' 

' i.e. can only be given when we are asking ourselves what we are 
to do. Aristotle repeatedly (e.g. ii, c. 18) insists that effective rhetoric 
involves a decision by 2i jud_^e, both 'judge' and 'decision ' being used 
in a broad sense : cp, notes on 1354"^ 25 and 1358'' 2. In politics such 
decisions normally mean action. 

' i. 2. 1356^ 25 ff. 

S46.10 C 



added, and, if any is defective, it may be increased. Further, 
he should know all the expenditure of the country, in order 
that, if any part of it is superfluous, it may be abolished, or, 
if any is too large, it may be reduced. For men become 
richer not only by increasing their existing wealth but also 
by reducing their expenditure. A comprehensive view of 

30 these questions cannot be gained solely from experience in 
home affairs ; in order to advise on such matters a man 
must be keenly interested in the methods worked out in 
other lands. 

As to Peace and War, he must know the extent of the 
military strength of his country, both actual and potential, 

35 and also the nature of that actual and potential strength ; 
and further, what wars his country has waged, and how it 
has waged them. He must know these facts not only about 
his own country, but also about neighbouring countries ; 
and also about countries with which war is likely, in order that 
peace may be maintained with those stronger than his own, 
and that his own may have power to make war or not against 
1360^ those that are weaker. He should know, too, whether the 
military power of another country is like or unlike that of 
his own ; for this is a matter that may affect their relative 
strength. With the same end in view he must, besides, 
have studied the wars of other countries as well as those of 
his own, and the way they ended ; similar causes are likely 
5 to have similar results. 

With regard to National Defence : he ought to know all 
about the methods of defence in actual use, such as the 
strength and character of the defensive force and the 
positions of the forts — this last means that he must be well 
acquainted with the lie of the country — in order that a 

10 garrison may be increased if it is too small or removed if it 
is not wanted, and that the strategic points may be guarded 
with special care. 

With regard to the Food Supply: he must know what 

outlay will meet the needs of his country ; ^ what kinds of 

food are produced at home and what imported ; and what 

articles must be exported or imported. This last he must 

^ Comma after noXa : no comma after irola. 

BOOK T. 4 1360* 

know in order that agreements and commercial treaties may 
be made with the countries concerned. There are, indeed, 15 
two sorts of state to which he must see that his countrymen 
give no cause for offence, states stronger than his own, and 
states with which it is advantageous to trade. 

But while he must, for security's sake, be able to ta"ke 
all this into account, he must before all things under- 
stand the subject of legislation ; for it is on a country's laws 
that its whole welfare depends. He must, therefore, know 20 
how many different forms of constitution there are ; under 
what conditions each of these will prosper and by what 
internal developments or external attacks each of them 
tends to be destroyed. When I speak of destruction through 
internal developments I refer to the fact that all constitutions, 
except the best one of all, are destroyed both by not being 
pushed far enough and by being pushed too far. Thus, 
democracy loses its vigour, and finally passes into oligarchy, 35 
not only when it is not pushed far enough, but also when 
it is pushed a great deal too far ; just as the aquiline and 
the snub nose not only turn into normal noses by not being 
aquiline or snub enough, but also by being too violently 
aquiline or snub arrive at a condition in which they no longer 
look like noses at all. 

It is useful, in framing laws, not only to study the past 30 
history of one's own country, in order to understand which 
constitution is desirable for it now, but also to have a 
knowledge of the constitutions of other nations, and so to 
learn for what kinds of nation the various kinds of constitu- 
tion are suited. From this we can see that books of travel 
are useful aids to legislation, since from these we may learn 
the laws and customs of different races. The political 33 
speaker will also find the researches of historians useful. 
But all this is the business of political science and not of 

These, then, are the most important kinds of information 
which the political speaker must possess.^ Let us now go 1360'' 
back and state the premisses from which he will have to 

* Not inserting tus nporuafis in 1. 3S. 
C 2 


argue in favour of adopting or rejecting measures regarding 
these and other matters.^ 

It may be said that every individual man and all men 5 

5 in common aim at a certain end which determines what 
they choose and what they avoid. This end, to sum it up 
briefly, is happiness and its constituents. Let us, then, by 
way of illustration only, ascertain what is in general the 
nature of happiness, and what are the elements of its 
constituent parts. For all advice to do things or not to do 

10 them is concerned with happiness and with the things that 
make for or against it ; whatever creates or increases 
happiness or some part of happiness, we ought to do ; 
whatever destroys or hampers happiness, or gives rise to its 
opposite, we ought not to do. 

We may define happiness as prosperity combined with 

15 virtue ; or as independence of life ; or as the secure enjoy- 
ment of the maximum of pleasure ; or as a good condition 
of property and body, together with the power of guarding 
one's property and body and making use of them. That 
happiness is one or more of these things, pretty well every- 
body agrees. 

From this definition of happiness it follows that its con- 

20 stituent parts are : — good birth, plenty of friends, good 
friends, wealth, good children, plenty of children, a happy 
old age, also such bodily excellences as health, beauty, 
strength, large stature, athletic powers, together with fame, 
honour, good luck, and virtue. A man cannot fail to be 

35 completely independent if he possesses these internal and 
these external goods ; for besides these there are no others 
to have. (Goods of the soul and of the body are internal. 
Good birth, friends, money, and honour are external.) 
Further, we think that he should possess resources and luck, 
in order to make his life really secure. As we have already 
ascertained what happiness in general is, so now let us 

30 try to ascertain what each of these parts of it is. 

Now good birth in a race or a state means that its 

' Barthelemy Saint-Hilaire says of this chapter: Ml est fait pour 
dtonner beaucoup ceux qui croient non-seulement h notre superiority, 
mais en outre h. une difference radicale entre nous et les Grecs.' 

BOOK I. 5 1360* 

members are indigenous or ancient ; that its earliest leaders 
were distinguished men, and that from them have sprung 
many who were distinguished for qualities that we admire. 

The good birth of an individual, which may come either 
from the male or the female side, implies that both parents 
are free citizens, and that, as in the case of the state, the 35 
founders of the line have been notable for virtue or wealth 
or something else which is highly prized, and that many 
distinguished persons belong to the family, men and women, 
young and old. 

The phrases ' possession of good children ' and ' of many 
children ' bear a quite clear meaning. Applied to a com- 
munity, they mean that its young men are numerous and 
of good quality : good in regard to bodily excellences, 1361* 
such as stature, beauty, strength, athletic powers ; and also 
in regard to the excellences of the soul, which in a young 
man are temperance and courage. Applied to an individual, 
they mean that his own children are numerous and have the 5 
good qualities we have described. Both male and female 
are here included ; the excellences of the latter are, in body, 
beauty and stature ; in soul, self-command and an industry 
that is not sordid.^ Communities as well as individuals 
should lack none of these perfections, in their women as 10 
well as in their men. Where, as among the Lacedaemonians, 
the state of women is bad, almost half of human life is spoilt. 

The constituents of wealth are : plenty of coined money 
and territory ; the ownership of numerous, large, and 
beautiful estates; also the ownership of numerous and 
beautiful implements, live stock, and slaves. All these 
kinds of property are our own, are secure, gentlemanly, 15 
and useful. The useful kinds are those that are productive, 
the gentlemanly kinds are those that provide enjoyment. 
By 'productive' I mean those from which we get our 
income ; by ' enjoyable ', those from which we get nothing 
worth mentioning except the use of them. The criterion 
of 'security' is the ownership of property in such places 
and under such conditions that the use of it is in our power ; 30 

* Or, as Thomas Hobbes well gives it in his Briefe of the Art oj 
Rhetorique^ ' liousewifeiie without sordidnesse '. 


and it is ' our own * if it is in our own power to dispose of it 
or keep it. By 'disposing of it' I mean giving it away or 
selling it. Wealth as a whole consists in using things rather 
than in owning them ; it is really the activity — that is, 
the use — of property that constitutes wealth. 

35 Fame means being respected by everybody, or having 
some quality that is desired by all men, or by most, or by 
the good, or by the wise. 

Honour is the token of a man's being famous for doing 
good. It is chiefly and most properly paid to those who 
have already done good ; but also to the man who can do 

30 good in future. Doing good refers either to the preserva- 
tion of life and the means of life, or to wealth, or to some 
other of the good things which it is hard to get either 
always or at that particular place or time — for many gain 
honour for things which seem small, but the place and the 
occasion account for it. The constituents of honour are : 

35 sacrifices ; commemoration, in verse or prose ; privileges ; 
grants of land ; front seats at civic celebrations ; ^ state 
burial ; * statues ; public maintenance ; ^ among foreigners, 
obeisances and giving place ; and such presents as are 
among various bodies of men regarded as marks of honour. 
For a present is not only the bestowal of a piece of property, 
but also a token of honour ; which explains why honour- 
loving as well as money-loving persons desire it. The 
igSjb present brings to both what they want ; it is a piece of 
property, which is what the lovers of money desire ; and it 
brings honour, which is what the lovers of honour desire. 

The excellence of the body is health ; that is, a condi- 
tion which allows us, while keeping free from disease, to have 
the use of our bodies ; for many people are ' healthy ' as we 

5 are told Herodicus was ; and these no one can congratulate 
on their ' health ', for they have to abstain from everything 
or nearly everything that men do. — Beauty varies with the 
time of life. In a young man beauty is the possession of a 
body fit to endure the exertion of running and of contests of 
strength ; which means that he is pleasant to look at ; and 

* More briefly, ' precedence'. 

' Or, (splendid) tombs ; sepulcliies. ' ' Pensions *. 

BOOK I. 5 1361* 

therefore all-round athletes are the most beautiful, being 10 
naturally adapted both for contests of strength and for 
speed also. For a man in his prime, beauty is fitness for 
the exertion of warfare, together with a pleasant but at the 
same time formidable appearance. For an old man, it is to 
be strong enough for such exertion as is necessary, and to be 
free from all those deformities of old age which cause pain 
to others.^ Strength is the power of moving some one else ^ 15 
at will ; to do this, you must either pull, push, lift, pin, or 
grip him ; thus you must be strong in all of those ways or at 
least in some. Excellence in size is to surpass ordinary 
people in height, thickness, and breadth by just as much as 
will not make one's movements slower in consequence. 20 
Athletic excellence of the body consists in size, strength, 
and swiftness ; swiftness implying strength. He who can 
fling forward his legs in a certain way, and move them fast 
and far, is good at running ; he who can grip and 
hold down is good at wrestling ; he who can drive an 
adversary from his ground with the right blow is a good 25 
boxer : he who can do both the last is a good pancratiast, 
while he who can do all is an ' all-round ' athlete. 

Happiness in old age is the coming of old age slowly 
and painlessly ; for a man has not this happiness if he 
grows old either quickly, or tardily but painfully. It 
arises both from the excellences of the body and from good 
luck. If a man is not free from disease, or if he is not 
strong, he will not be free from suffering ; nor can he 30 
continue to live a long and painless life unless he has good 
luck.^ There is, indeed, a capacity for long life that is quite 
independent of health or strength ; for many people live 
long who lack the excellences of the body ; but for our 
present purpose there is no use in going into the details 
of this. 

The terms ' possession of many friends ' and ' possession 35 
of good friends ' need no explanation ; for we define a 

^ Or, 'to be free from pain (cp. 1361'' 27), through escaping the 
ravages of old age '. 

* Possibly, ' something else '. But a reference to wrestling is more 
probable, and (rtpov (not (tepov n) suggests ' another person '. 

' Comma after (iTradr'is : no comma after akvnos : ovt bracketed. 


' friend ' as one who will always try, for your sake, to do 
what he takes to be good for you. The man towards whom 
many feel thus has many friends ; if these are worthy men, 
he has good friends. 

' Good luck ' means the acquisition or possession of all or 
most, or the most important, of those good things which 
1362* are due to luck. Some of the things that are due to luck 
may also be due to artificial contrivance ; but many are in- 
dependent of art, as for example those which are due to 
nature— though, to be sure, things due to luck may actually 
be contrary to nature. Thus health may be due to artificial 
contrivance, but beauty and stature are due to nature. All 
.s such good things as excite envy are, as a class, the outcome 
of good luck. Luck is also the cause of good things that 
happen contrary to reasonable expectation : as when, for 
instance, all your brothers are ugly, but you are handsome 
yourself; or when you find a treasure that everybody else 
has overlooked ; or when a missile hits the next man and 
misses you ; or when you are the only man not to go to 
10 a place you have gone to regularly, while the others go 
there for the first time and are killed. All such things are 
reckoned pieces of good luck. 

As to virtue, it is most closely connected with the subject 
of Eulogy, and therefore we will wait to define it until 
we come to discuss that subject.^ 

15 It is now plain what our aims, future or actual, should be 6 
in urging, and what in deprecating, a proposal ; the latter 
being the opposite of the former. Now the political or 
deliberative orator's aim is utility : deliberation seeks to 
determine not ends but the means to ends, i. e. what it is 

80 most useful to do. Further, utility is a good thing. We 
ought therefore to assure ourselves of the main facts about 
Goodness and Utility in general. 

We may define a good thing as that which ought to be 
chosen for its own sake ; or as that for the sake of which we 
choose something else ; or as that which is sought after by 
all things, or by all things that have sensation or reason, or 

' i, c. 9. 

BOOK I. 6 136a* 

which will be sought after by any things that acquire reason ; 
or as that which must be prescribed for a given individual by '5 
reason generally, or is prescribed for him by his individual 
reason, this being his individual good ; or as that whose 
presence brings anything into a satisfactory and self-sufficing 
condition ; or as self-sufficiency ; or as what produces, main- 
tains, or entails characteristics of this kind, while preventing 
and destroying their opposites. One thing may entail another 
in either of two ways — (i) simultaneously, (2) subsequently. 30 
Thus learning entails knowledge subsequently, health entails 
life simultaneously. Things are productive of other things 
in three senses : first as being healthy produces health ; 
secondly, as food produces health ; and thirdly, as exercise 
does — i. e. it does so usually. All this being settled, we 
now see that both the acquisition of good things and the 
removal of bad things must be good ; the latter entails 35 
freedom from the evil things simultaneously, while the 
former entails possession of the good things subsequently. 
The acquisition of a greater in place of a lesser good, or of 
a lesser in place of a greater evil, is also good, for in propor- 
tion as the greater exceeds the lesser there is acquisition of 1362*' 
good or removal of evil.^ The virtues, too, must be 
something good ; for it is by possessing these that we are 
in a good condition, and they tend to produce good works 
and good actions. They must be severally named and 5 
described elsewhere.^ Pleasure, again, must be a good 
thing, since it is the nature of all animals to aim at it. 
Consequently both pleasant and beautiful things must be 
good things, since the former afe productive of pleasure, 
while of the beautiful things some are pleasant and some 
desirable in and for themselves. 

The following is a more detailed list of things that must 10 
be good. Happiness, as being desirable in itself and suffi- 
cient by itself, and as being that for whose sake we choose 

^ Reading rovra with A". Other readings are (i) toCto, 'for the 
difference between the greater and the lesser constitutes acquisition of 
good in the one case and removaf of evil in the other * ; and (2) tovtov, 
'for the acquisition and the removal of the diflference between the 
greater and the lesser amount to the acquisition of good and the 
removal of evil respectively '. 

* xupis * separately ' : in c. 9. 


many other things. Also justice, courage, temperance, 
magnanimity,^ magnificence, and all such qualities, as being 
excellences of the soul. Further, health, beauty, and the 

15 like, as being bodily excellences and productive of many 
other good things : for instance, health is productive both 
of pleasure and of life, and therefore is thought the greatest 
of goods, since these two things which it causes, pleasure 
and life, are two of the things most highly prized by 
ordinary people. Wealth, again : for it is the excellence of 
possession, and also productive of many other good things. 
Friends and friendship: for a friend is desirable in himself 

20 and also productive of many other good things. So, too, 
honour and reputation, as being pleasant, and productive of 
many other good things, and usually accompanied by the 
presence of the good things that cause them to be bestowed. 
The faculty of speech and action ; since all such qualities 
are productive of what is good. Further— good parts, strong 
memory, receptiveness, quickness of intuition, and the like, 

25 for all such faculties are productive of what is good. 
Similarly, all the sciences and arts. And life : since, even 
if no other good were the result of life, it is desirable in 
itself. And justice, as the cause of good to the community. 
The above are pretty well all the things admittedly good. 
In dealing with things whose goodness is disputed, we may 

30 argue in the following ways : — That is good of which the 
contrary is bad. That is good the contrary of which is to 
the advantage of our enemies ; for example, if it is to the 
particular advantage of our enemies that we should be 
cowards, clearly courage is of particular value to our 
countrymen. And generally, the contrary of that which our 
enemies desire, or of that at which they rejoice, is evidently 

35 valuable. Hence the passage beginning : 

Surely would Priam exult.^ 

This principle usually holds good, but not always, since it 
may well be that our interest is sometimes the same as that 

* i.e. loftiness of mind, greatness of spirit. 

2 Iliad, i. 255. — The verse-translations throughout are by Dr. A. S. 
Way, with occasional adaptations. — Aristotle, like other Greek writers, 
often indicates, as here, a whole passage by a few words taken from it. 

BOOK I. 6 136a* 

of our enemies. Hence it is said that ' evils draw men to- 
gether ' ; that is, when the same thing is hurtful to them both. 1363° 

Further: that which is not in excess is good,^ and that 
which is greater than it should be is bad. That also is good 
on which much labour or money has been spent ; the mere 
fact of this makes it seem good, and such a good is assumed 
to be an end — an end reached through a long chain of 
means ; and any end is a good. Hence the lines beginning : 5 

And for Priam (and Troy-town's folk) should they 
leave behind them a boast ; ^ 

Oh, it were shame 
To have tarried so long and return empty-handed as 
erst we came ; ^ 

and there is also the proverb about * breaking the pitcher at 
the door '. 

That which most people seek after, and which is obviously 
an object of contention, is also a good ; for, as has been 
shown,^ that is good which is sought after by everybody, 
and ' most people ' is taken to be equivalent to * everybody '. 
That which is praised is good, since no one praises what is 10 
not good. Soj again, that which is praised by our enemies 
[or by the worthless] ; for when even those who have a 
grievance think a thing good, it is at once felt that every one 
must agree with them ; our enemies can admit the fact 
only because it is evident, just as those must be worth- 
less whom their friends censure and their enemies do not. 
(For this reason the Corinthians conceived themselves to be 15 
insulted by Simonides when he wrote : 

Against the Corinthians hath Ilium no complaint.^) 

Again, that is good which has been distinguished by the 
favour of a discerning or virtuous man or woman, as 
Odysseus was distinguished by Athena, Helen by Theseus, 
Paris by the goddesses, and Achilles by Homer. And, 
generally speaking, all things are good which men delibe- 
rately choose to do ; this will include the things already 

* Reading ov with the manuscripts. The ' mean ' is meant. 

^ //AzrA ii. 160. ^ Iliad, ii. 298. " 1362" 23. 

° Simonides, Itagm. 50, Bergk\ 


30 mentioned, and also whatever may be bad for their enemies 
or good for their friends, and at the same time practicable. 
Things are 'practicable' in two senses: (i) it is possible to 
do them, (2) it is easy to do them. Things are done 
' easily ' when they are done either without pain or quickly : 
the * difficulty ' of an act lies either in its painfulness or in 
the long time it takes. Again, a thing is good ^ if it is as 

25 men wish ; and they wish to have either no evil at all or at 
least a balance of good over evil. This last will happen 
where the penalty is either imperceptible or slight. Good, 
too, are things that are a man's very own, possessed by no 
one else, exceptional ; for this increases the credit of having 
them.^ So are things which befit the possessors, such as 
whatever is appropriate to their birth or capacity, and 
whatever they feel they ought to have but lack — such 

30 things may indeed be trifling, but none the less men de- 
liberately make them the goal of their action. And things 
easily effected ; for these are practicable (in the sense of 
being easy) ; such things are those in which every one, or 
most people, or one's equals, or one's inferiors have suc- 
ceeded. Good also are the things by which we shall gratify 
our friends or annoy our enemies: and the things chosen 

35 by those whom we admire : and the things for which we are 
fitted by nature or experience, since we think we shall suc- 
ceed more easily in these : and those in which no worthless 
man can succeed, for such things bring greater praise : and 
those which we do in fact desire, for what we desire is taken 
to be not only pleasant but also better. Further, a man 
1363^ of a given disposition makes chiefly for the corresponding 
things : lovers of victory make for victory, lovers of honour 
for honour, money-loving men for money, and so with the 
rest. These, then, are the sources from which we must 
derive our means of persuasion about Good and Utility. 

5 Since, however, it often happens that people agree that 7 
two things are both useful but do not agree about which is 

' Or perhaps better, ' Men deliberately choose a thing if it is . . . . ' ; 
the rest of the chapter thus being a list of rrpoaipfTo. (cp. oiiStv yap ^ttov 
npnniiwifrni rnvTu nptiTTtiv I. 30 and also 11. 19, 20 above). 

' Or, * the value put upon them ' (sc. by their possessor). 

BOOK I. 7 1363* 

the more so, the next step will be to treat of relative good- 
ness and relative utility. 

A thing which surpasses another may be regarded as 
being that other thing plus something more, and that other 
thing which is surpassed as being what is contained in the 
first thing. Now to call a thing ' greater ' or ' more ' always 
implies a comparison of it with one that is ' smaller ' or * less ', 
while ' great ' and ' small ', ' much ' and ' little ', are terms 10 
used in comparison with normal magnitude. The ' great ' is 
that which surpasses the normal, the ' small ' is that which is 
surpassed by the normal ; and so with ' many ' and ' few '. 

Now we are applying the term * good ' to what is desir- 
able for its own sake and not for the sake of something 
else ; to that at which all things aim ; to what they would 
choose if they could acquire understanding and practical 
wisdom ; and to that which tends to produce or preserve 15 
such goods, or is always accompanied by them. Moreover, 
that for the sake of which things are done is the end (an end 
being that for the sake of which all else is done), and for 
each individual that thing is a good which fulfils these con- 
ditions in regard to himself. It follows, then, that a greater 
number of goods is a greater good than one or than a smaller 
number, if that one or that smaller number is included in 
the count ; for then the larger number surpasses the smaller, 
and the smaller quantity is surpassed as being contained in 20 
the larger. 

Again, if the largest member of one class surpasses the 
largest member of another, then the one class sui-passes the 
other ; and if one class surpasses another, then the largest 
member of the one surpasses the largest member of the 
other. Thus, if the tallest man is taller than the tallest 
woman, then men in general are taller than women. Con- 
versely, if men in general are taller than women, then the 25 
tallest man is taller than the tallest woman. For the 
superiority of class over class is proportionate to the supe- 
riority possessed by their largest specimens. Again, where 
one good is always accompanied by another, but does 
not always accompany it, it is greater than the other, 
for the use of the second thing is implied in the use of the ,',0 


first. A thing may be accompanied by another in three 
ways, either simultaneously, subsequently, or potentially. 
Life accompanies health simultaneously (but not health life), 
knowledge accompanies the act of learning subsequently, 
cheating accompanies sacrilege potentially, since a man who 
has committed sacrilege is always capable of cheating. 
Again, when two things each surpass a third, that which 
does so by the greater amount is the greater of the two ; for 
it must surpass the greater as well as the less of the other 
two. A thing productive of a greater good than another is 
35 productive of is itself a greater good than that other. For 
this conception of * productive of a greater ' has been implied 
in our argument.^ Likewise, that which is produced by a 
greater good is itself a greater good ; thus, if what is whole- 
some is more desirable and a greater good than what gives 
pleasure, health too must be a greater good than pleasure. 
1364^ Again, a thing which is desirable in itself is a greater good 
than a thing which is not desirable in itself, as for example 
bodily strength than what is wholesome, since the latter is 
not pursued for its own sake, whereas the former is ; and 
this was our definition of the good.^ Again, if one of two 
things is an end, and the other is not, the former is the 
greater good, as being chosen for its own sake and not for 
the sake of something else ; as, for example, exercise is 
5 chosen for the sake of physical well-being. And of two 
things that which stands less in need of the other, or of other 
things, is the greater good, since it is more self-sufficing. 
(That which stands ' less ' in need of others is that which 
needs either fewer or easier things.) So when one thing 
does not exist or cannot come into existence without a second, 
while the second can exist without the first, the second is 
the better. That which does not need something else is 
more self-suflficing than that which does, and presents itself as 
a greater good for that reason. Again, that which is a begin- 
10 ning of other things is a greater good than that which is not, 

* i.e. we have already (1363'' 15) said that what is productive of 
good is good ; it follows, then, from our way of looking at ' produc- 
tivity' and 'degree', that what is productive of a greater good is a 
greater good. 

* 1362" 22. 

BOOK I. 7 1364= 

and that which is a cause is a greater good than that which 
is not ; the reason being the same in each case, namely that 
without a cause and a beginning nothing can exist or come 
into existence. Again, where there are two sets of con- 
sequences arising from two different beginnings or causes, 
the consequences of the more important beginning or cause 
are themselves the more important ; and conversely, that 
beginning or cause is itself the more important which has 
the more important consequences. Now it is plain, from all 15 
that has been said, that one thing may be shown to be more 
important than another from two opposite points of view : 
it may appear the more important (i) because it is a begin- 
ning ^ and the other thing is not, and also (a) because it is not 
a beginning and the other thing is— on the ground that the 
end is more important and is not a beginning.^ So Leodamas, 
when accusing Callistratus, said that the man who prompted 
the deed was more guilty than the doer, since it would not ao 
have been done if he had not planned it.^ On the other 
hand, when accusing Chabrias he said that the doer was 
worse than the prompter, since there would have been no 
deed without some one to do it ; men, said he, plot a thing 
only in order to carry it out. 

Further, what is rare is a greater good than what is 
plentiful. Thus, gold is a better thing than iron, though 
less useful : it is harder to get, and therefore better worth 35 
getting. Reversely, it may be argued that the plentiful is 
a better thing than the rare, because we can make more use 
of it. For what is often useful surpasses what is seldom 
useful, whence the saying 

The best of things is water.* 

More generally: the hard thing is better than the easy, 
because it is rarer : and reversely, the easy thing is better 

^ Or, ' first principle ' ; here and in what follows. But cp. the two 
following examples. 

^ We might perhaps expect * on the ground that it is the end, not 
the beginning, that matters ' ; reading nv^ 17 afixi ("^x ^PX'i\ o"" taking 
ovK apxf) to mean 'not any poor beginning'. I3ut cp. the Leodamas- 
Chabrias example. 

* Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Ati., Pt. ii, pp. 244, 245. 

* Pindar, Olympians, i. i. 


30 than the hard, for it is as we wish it to be. That is the 
greater good whose contrary is the greater evil, and whose 
loss affects us more. Positive goodness and badness are 
more important than the mere absence of goodness and 
badness : for positive goodness and badness are ends, which 
the mere absence of them cannot be. Further, in proportion 
as the functions of things are noble or base, the things 
themselves are good or bad : conversely, in proportion as 
the things themselves are good or bad, their functions also 
are good or bad ; for the nature of results corresponds with 

35 that of their causes and beginnings, and conversely the 
nature of causes and beginnings corresponds with that of 
their results. Moreover, those things are greater goods, 
superiority in which is more desirable or more honourable. 
Thus, keenness of sight is more desirable than keenness of 
smell, sight generally being more desirable than smell 
1364'' generally ; and similarly, unusually great love of friends 
being more honourable than unusually great love of money, 
ordinary love of friends is more honourable than ordinary 
love of money. Conversely, if one of two normal things is 
better or nobler than the other, an unusual degree of that 
thing is better or nobler than an unusual degree of the 
other. Again, one thing is more honourable or better than 
another if it is more honourable or better to desire it ; the 
5 importance of the object of a given instinct corresponds to 
the importance of the instinct itself; and for the same 
reason, if one thing is more honourable or better than 
another, it is more honourable and better to desire it. 
Again, if one science is more honourable and valuable than 
another, the activity with which it deals is also more honour- 
able and valuable ; as is the science, so is the reality that is 
its object, each science being authoritative in its own sphere. 

10 So, also, the more valuable and honourable the object of a 
science, the more valuable and honourable the science itself 
is in consequence. Again, that which would be judged, or 
which has been judged, a good thing, or a better thing than 
something else, by all or most people of understanding, 
or by the majority of men, or by the ablest, must be 
so; either without qualification, or in so far as they use 

BOOK I. 7 1364' 

their understanding to form their judgement. This is 
indeed a general principle, applicable to all other judge- 
ments also; not only the goodness of things, but their 
essence, magnitude, and general nature are in fact just what 15 
knowledge and understanding will declare them to be. 
Here the principle is applied to judgements of goodness, 
since one definition of ' good ' was ' what beings that acquire 
understanding will choose in any given case' : ^ from which 
it clearly follows that that thing is better which understanding 
declares to be so. That, again, is a better thing which 
attaches to better men, either absolutely, or in virtue ofao 
their being better ; as courage is better than strength. And 
that is a greater good which would be chosen by a better 
man, either absolutely, or in virtue of his being better : for 
instance, to suffer wrong rather than to do wrong, for that 
would be the choice of the juster man. Again, the pleasanter 
of two things is the better, since all things pursue pleasure, 
and things instinctively desire pleasurable sensation for its 
own sake; and these are two of the characteristics by which 
the ' good ' and the ' end ' have been defined. One pleasure 25 
is greater than another if it is more unmixed with pain, or 
more lasting. Again, the nobler thing is better than the 
less noble, since the noble is either what is pleasant or what 
is desirable in itself. And those things also are greater 
goods which men desire more earnestly to bring about for 
themselves or for their friends, whereas those things which 
they least desire to bring about are greater evils. And 
those things which are more lasting are better than those 3° 
which are more fleeting, and the more secure than the less ; 
the enjoyment of the lasting has the advantage of being 
longer, and that of the secure has the advantage of suiting 
our wishes, being there for us whenever we like. Further, in 
accordance with the rule of co-ordinate terms and inflexions 
of the same stem, what is true of one such related word is 
true of all. Thus if the action qualified by the term ' brave ' 35 
is more noble and desirable than the action qualified by the 
term 'temperate', then 'bravery' is more desirable than 
' temperance ' and ' being brave ' than ' being temperate '. 

> Cp. 1363'' 14. 

645.10 D 


That, again, which is chosen by all is a greater good than 
that which is not, and that chosen by the majority than that 
1365* chosen by the minority. For that which all desire is good, 
as we have said ; ^ and so, the more a thing is desired, the 
better it is. Further, that is the better thing which is 
considered so by competitors or enemies, or, again, by 
authorized judges or those whom they select to represent 
them. In the first two cases the decision is virtually that 
of every one, in the last two that of authorities and experts. 
And sometimes it may be argued that what all share is 
6 the better thing, since it is a dishonour not to share in 
it; at other times, that what none or few share is better, 
since it is rarer. The more praiseworthy things are, the 
nobler and therefore the better they are. So with the 
things that earn greater honours than others — honour is. as 
it were, a measure of value ; and the things whose absence 
involves comparatively heavy penalties ; and the things 
that are better than others admitted or believed to be good, 
ic Moreover, things look better merely by being divided into 
their parts, since they then seem to surpass a greater number 
of things than before. Hence Homer says that Meleager 
was roused to battle by the thought of 

All horrors that light on a folk whose city is ta'en of 

their foes, 
When they slaughter the men, when the burg is wasted 

with ravening flame, 
15 When strangers are haling young children to thraldom, 

(fair women to shame).^ 

The same effect is produced by piling up facts in a climax 
after the manner of Epicharmus. The reason is partly the 
same as in the case of division (for combination too makes 
the impression of great superiority), and partly that the 
original thing appears to be the cause and origin of im- 
portant results. And since a thing is better when it is 
harder or rarer than other things, its superiority may be due 
30 to seasons, ages, places, times, or one's natural powers. 
When a man accomplishes something beyond his natural 

' 1363^14. 

* Iliad, ix. 592-4 (Aristotle seems to quote from memory, here and 

BOOK I. 7 1365* 

power, or beyond his years, or beyond the measure of people 
like him, or in a special way, or at a special place or time, 
his deed will have a high degree of nobleness, goodness, and 
justice, or of their opposites. Hence the epigram on the 
victor at the Olympic games : 35 

In time past, bearing a yoke on my shoulders, of wood 

I carried my loads of fish from Argos to Tegea town.^ 

So Iphicrates used to extol himself by describing the low 
estate from which he had risen. Again, what is natural is 
better than what is acquired, since it is harder to come by. 
Hence the words of Homer : 

I have learnt from none but myself.^ 30 

And the best part of a good thing is particularly good ; as 
when Pericles in his funeral oration said that the country's 
loss of its young men in battle was ' as if the spring were 
taken out of the year '.^ So with those things which are of 
service when the need is pressing ; for example, in old age 
and times of sickness. And of two things that which leads 
more directly to the end in view is the better. So too is 
that which is better for people generally as well as for a 35 
particular individual. Again, what can be got is better than 
what cannot, for it is good in a given case and the other 
thing is not. And what is at the end of life is better than 
what is not, since those things are ends in a greater degree 
which are nearer the end. What aims at reality is better 
than what aims at appearance. We may define what aims 1365'' 
at appearance as what a man will not choose if nobody is to 
know of his having it. This would seem to show that to 
receive benefits is more desirable than to confer them, since 
a man will choose the former even if nobody is to know of 
it, but it is not the general view that he will choose the 
latter if nobody knows of it. What a man wants to be is 
better than what a man wants to seem, for in aiming at that 5 
he is aiming more at reality. Hence men say that justice 

' Simonides, fragm. 163, Bergk*. * Odyssey , xxii. 347. 

' Cp. iii, c. 10, 1 41 1* 4. This famous simile is not found in ihe 
Funeral Oration of Pericles, as given by Thucydides in his Second 
Book ; cp. Roberts, Patriotic Poetry : Greek and English, pp. -jt, \ 27 . 

D a 


is of small value, since it is more desirable to seem just than 
to be just, whereas with health it is not so. That is better 
than other things which is more useful than they are for 
a number of different purposes ; for example, that which 
promotes life, good life, pleasure, and noble conduct. For 

lo this reason wealth and health are commonly thought to be 
of the highest value, as possessing all these advantages. 
Again, that is better than other things which is accompanied 
both with less pain and with actual pleasure ; for here 
there is more than one advantage ; and so here we have the 
good of feeling pleasure and also the good of not feeling pain. 
And of two good things that is the better whose addition 
to a third thing makes a better whole than the addition 
of the other to the same thing will make. Again, those 
things which we are seen to possess are better than those 

15 which we are not seen to possess, since the former have the 
air of reality. Hence wealth may be regarded as a greater 
good if its existence is known to others.' That which is 
dearly prized is better than what is not — the sort of thing 
that some people have only one of, though others have 
more like it. Accordingly, blinding a one-eyed man inflicts 
worse injury than half-blinding a man with two eyes ; for the 
one-eyed man has been robbed of what he dearly prized. 

'o The grounds on which we must base our arguments, when 
we are speaking for or against a proposal, have now been 
set forth more or less completely. 

The most important and effective qualification for success 8 
in persuading audiences and speaking well on public affairs 
is to understand all the forms of government and to 
discriminate their respective customs, institutions, and 

as interests. For all men are persuaded by considerations of 
their interest, and their interest lies in the maintenance of 
the established order. Further, it rests with the supreme 
authority to give authoritative decisions, and this varies with 
each form of government ; there are as many different 
supreme authorities as there are different forms of govern- 
ment. The forms of government are four — democracy* 

30 oligarchy, aristocracy, monarchy. The supreme right to 

' Reading roj doKt'iv (Munro). 


BOOK I. 8 1365" 

judge and decide always rests, therefore, with either a part 
or the whole of one or other of these governing powers. 

A Democracy is a form of government under which the 
citizens distribute the offices of state among themselves by 
lot, whereas under oligarchy there is a property qualifica- 
tion, under aristocracy one of education.^ By education I 
mean that education which is laid down by the law ; for it 
is those who have been loyal to the national institutions that 35 
hold office under an aristocracy. These are bound to be 
looked upon as ' the best men ', and it is from this fact that 
this form of government has derived its name C the rule of 
the best '). Monarchy, as the word implies, is the constitu- 
tion in which one man has authority over all. There are 1366* 
two forms of monarchy : kingship, which is limited by 
prescribed conditions, and 'tyranny','^ which is not limited 
by anything. 

We must also notice the ends which the various forms 
of government pursue, since people choose in practice such 
actions as will lead to the realization of their ends. The 
end of democracy is freedom ; of oligarchy, wealth ; of 
aristocracy, the maintenance of education and national 5 
institutions ; of tyranny, the protection of the tyrant. It 
is clear, then, that we must distinguish those particular 
customs, institutions, and interests which tend to realize the 
ideal of each constitution, since men choose their means with 
reference to their ends. But rhetorical persuasion is effected 
not only by demonstrative but by ethical argument ; it helps 
a speaker to convince us, if we believe that he has certain 10 
qualities himself, namely, goodness, or goodwill towards us, 
or both together. Similarly, we should know the moral 
qualities characteristic of each form of government, for the 
special moral character of each is bound to provide us with 
our most effective means of persuasion in dealing with it. 
We shall learn the qualities of governments in the same way 
as we learn the qualities of individuals, since they are 
revealed in their deliberate acts of choice ; and these are 15 
determined by the end that inspires them. 

' Perhaps ' discipline ' : with special reference to Sparta. 
' Despotism, autocracy. 


We have now considered the objects, immediate or distant, 
at which we are to aim when urging any proposal, and the 
grounds on which we are to base our arguments in favour of 
its utility. We have also briefly considered the means and 
methods by which we shall gain a good knowledge of the 
20 moral qualities and institutions peculiar to the various forms 
of government — only, however, to the extent demanded by 
the present occasion ; a detailed account of the subject has 
been given in the Politics} 

We have now to consider Virtue and Vice, the Noble and 9 
the Base,'^ since these are the objects of praise and blame. 

95 In doing so, we shall at the same time be finding out how 
to make our hearers take the required view of our own 
characters— our second method of persuasion.^ The ways 
in which to make them trust the goodness of other people 
are also the ways in which to make them trust our own. 
Praise, again, may be serious or frivolous ; nor is it always 

30 of a human or divine being but often of inanimate things, or of 
the humblest of the lower animals. Here too we must know 
on what grounds to argue, and must, therefore, now discuss 
the subject, though by way of illustration only.* 

The Noble is that which is both desirable for its own sake 
and also worthy of praise ; or that which is both good and 
also pleasant because good. If this is a true definition of 

35 the Noble, it follows that virtue must be noble, since it is 
both a good thing and also praiseworthy. Virtue is, 
according to the usual view, a faculty of providing and 
preserving good things ; or a faculty of conferring many 
great benefits, and benefits of all kinds on all occasions. 
1366'' The forms of Virtue are justice, courage, temperance, mag- 
nificence, magnanimity, liberality, gentleness, prudence, 
wisdom. If virtue is a faculty of beneficence, the highest 
kinds of it must be those which are most useful to others, 
5 and for this reason men honour most the just and the 
courageous, since courage is useful to others in war, justice 

' Politics, iii and iv. 

" Or (here and elsewhere), * Goodness and Badness, the Fine and 
the Mean.' ^ 1356* 2 and 5. 

* i, e. enough to make our meaning clear. 

BOOK I. 9 1366* 

both in war and in peace. Next comes liberality ; liberal 
people let their money go instead of fighting for it, whereas 
other people care more for money than for anything else. 
Justice is the virtue through which everybody enjoys his own 
possessions in accordance with the law ; its opposite is injus- 10 
tice, through which men enjoy the possessions of others in 
defiance of the law. Courage is the virtue that disposes men 
to do noble deeds in situations of danger, in accordance 
with the law and in obedience to its commands ; cowardice 
is the opposite. Temperance is the virtue that disposes us 
to obey the law where physical pleasures are concerned ; 15 
incontinence is the opposite. Liberality disposes us to spend 
money for others' good ; illiberality is the opposite. 
Magnanimity is the virtue that disposes us to do good 
to others on a large scale; [its opposite is meanness of 
spirit]. Magnificence is a virtue productive of greatness in 
matters involving the spending of money. The opposites 
of these two are smallness of spirit and meanness respec- 
tively. Prudence is that virtue of the understanding which 30 
enables men to come to wise decisions about the relation to 
happiness of the goods and evils that have been previously 

The above is a sufficient account, for our present purpose, 
of virtue and vice in general, and of their various forms. As 
to further aspects of the subject, it is not difficult to discern 
the facts ; it is evident that things productive of virtue are 25 
noble, as tending towards virtue ; and also the effects of virtue, 
that is, the signs of its presence and the acts to which it 
leads. And since the signs of virtue, and such acts as it is 
the mark of a virtuous man to do or have done to him, are 
noble, it follows that all deeds or signs of courage, 
and everything done courageously, must be noble things ; 30 
and so with what is just and actions done justly. (Not, 
however, actions justly done to us ; here justice is unlike 
the other virtues ; 'justly' does not always mean ' nobly'; 
when a man is punished, it is more shameful that this should 
be justly than unjustly done to him). The same is true of 
the other virtues. Again, those actions are noble for which 

' Cp. 1362^ 10-28. 


35 the reward is simply honour, or honour more than money. 
So are those in which a man aims at something desirable 
for some one else's sake ; actions good absolutely, such as 
those a man does for his country without thinking of him- 
self; actions good in their own nature ; actions that are not 
good simply for the individual, since individual interests are 
^367 selfish. Noble also are those actions whose advantage may 
be enjoyed after death, as opposed to those whose advantage 
is enjoyed during one's lifetime : for the latter are more 
likely to be for one's own sake only. Also, all actions done 
for the sake of others, since these less than other actions are 
done for one's own sake ; and all successes which benefit 
5 others and not oneself; and services done to one's bene- 
factors, for this is just ; and good deeds generally, since they 
are not directed to one's own profit. And the opposites of 
those things of which men feel ashamed, for men are ashamed 
of saying, doing, or intending to do shameful things. So 
when Alcaeus said 

Something I fain would say to thee, 
10 Only shame restraineth me,^ 

Sappho wrotd 

If for things good and noble thou wert yearning. 
If to speak baseness were thy tongue not burning. 
No load of shame would on thine eyelids weigh ; 
What thou with honour wishest thou wouldst say.'^ 

15 Those things, also, are noble for which men strive anxiously, 
without feeling fear ; for they feel thus about the good 
things which lead to fair fame. Again, one quality or action 
is nobler than another if it is that of a naturally finer 
being : thus a man's will be nobler than a woman's. 
And those qualities are noble which give more pleasure 
to other people than to their possessors ; hence the 
nobleness of justice and just actions. It is noble to avenge 

20 oneself on one's enemies and not to come to terms with 
them ; for requital is just, and the just is noble ; and not to 
surrender is a sign of courage. Victory, too, and honour 
belong to the class of noble things, since they are desirable 
even when they yield no fruits, and they prove our supe- 
' Alcaeus, fragm. 55, Bergk*. '^ Sappho, fragm. 28, Bergk*. 

BOOK I. 9 I367» 

riority in good qualities. Things that deserve to be remem- 
bered are noble, and the more they deserve this, the nobler 
they are. So are the things that continue even after death ; 
those which are always attended by honour ; those which are 25 
exceptional ; and those which are possessed by one person 
alone — these last are more readily remembered than 
others. So again are possessions that bring no profit, since 
they are more fitting than others for a gentleman. So are 
the distinctive qualities of a particular people, and the 
symbols of what it specially admires, like long hair in Sparta, 
where this is a mark of a free man, as it is not easy to 
perform any menial task when one's hair is long. Again, 30 
it is noble not to practise any sordid craft, since it is the 
mark of a free man not to live at another's beck and call. 
We are also to assume, when we wish either to praise a man 
or blame him, that qualities closely allied to those which he 
actually has are identical with them ; for instance, that the 
cautious man is cold-blooded and treacherous, and that the 
stupid man is an honest fellow or the thick-skinned man a 35 
good-tempered one. We can always idealize any given 
man by drawing on the virtues akin to his actual qualities ; 
thus we may say that the passionate and excitable man is 
' outspoken ' ; or that the arrogant man is ' superb ' or 
' impressive '. Those who run to extremes will be said to i$6'j^ 
possess the corresponding good qualities ; rashness will be 
called courage, and extravagance generosity. That will 
be what most people think; and at the same time this 
method enables an advocate to draw a misleading inference 
from the motive, arguing that if a man runs into danger 
needlessly, much more will he do so in a noble cause ; and 5 
if a man is open-handed to any one and every one, he will 
be so to his friends also, since it is the extreme form of 
goodness to be good to everybody. 

We must also take into account the nature of our par- 
ticular audience when making a speech of praise ; for, as 
Socrates used to say, it is not difficult to praise the 
Athenians to an Athenian audience.^ If the audience 
esteems a given quality, we must say that our hero has that 
' Cp. Plato, MenexenuSy 235 D 


10 quality, no matter whether we are addressing Scythians or 
Spartans or philosophers. Everything, in fact, that is 
esteemed we are to represent as noble. After all, people 
regard the two things as much the same. 

All actions are noble that are appropriate to the man who 
does them : if, for instance, they are worthy of his ancestors 
or of his own past career. For it makes for happiness, and 
is a noble thing, that he should add to the honour he already 

15 has. Even inappropriate actions are noble if they are better 
and nobler than the appropriate ones would be ; for instance, 
if one who was just an average person when all went well 
becomes a hero in adversity, or if he becomes better and 
easier to get on with the higher he rises. Compare the 
saying of Iphicrates, ' Think what I was and what I am ' ; 
and the epigram on the victor at the Olympic games. 

In time past, bearing a yoke on my shoulders, of wood 
unshaven ' ; 

and the encomium of Simonides, 

A woman whose father, whose husband, whose brethren 
20 were princes all.^ 

Since we praise a man for what he has actually done, and 
fine actions are distinguished from others by being inten- 
tionally ^ good, we must try to prove that our hero's noble 
acts are intentional.^ This is all the easier if we can make 
out that he has often acted so before, and therefore we must 
assert coincidences and accidents to have been intended.^ 
25 Produce a number of good actions, all of the same kind, 
and people will think that they must have been intended,^ 
and that they prove the good qualities of the man who 
did them. 

Praise is the expression in words of the eminence of a 

man's good qualities, and therefore we must display his 

actions as the product of such qualities. Encomium refers 

to what he has actually done ; the mention of accessories, 

such as good birth and education, merely helps to make our 

' Cp. i. 7, 1365*24-8, for this and the previous quotation. 
^ Simonides, fragm. ill, Bergk*. 

' Deliberate intention, based on moral choice, is meant in all these 

BOOK I. 9 1367* 

story credible — good fathers are likely to have good sons, 30 
and good training is likely to produce good character. Hence 
it is only when a man has already done something that we 
bestow encomiums upon him. Yet the actual deeds are 
evidence of the doer's character : even if a man has not 
actually done a given good thing, we shall hQs,to\v praise on 
him, if we are sure that he is the sort of man who would do 
it. To call any one blest is, it may be added, the same 
thing as to call him happy ^ ; but these are not the same 
thing as to bestow praise and encomium upon him ; the 
two latter are a part of ' calling happy ', just as goodness is 35 
a part of happiness. 

To praise a man is in one respect akin to urging a course 
of action. The suggestions which would be made in the 
latter case become encomiums when differently expressed. 1368^ 
When we know what action or character Is required, then, 
in order to express these facts as suggestions for action, 
we have to change and reverse our form of words. Thus 
the statement ' A man should be proud not of what he owes 
to fortune but of what he owes to himself, if put like 
this, amounts to a suggestion ; to make it into praise we 5 
must put it thus, ' Since he is proud not of what he owes 
to fortune but of what he owes to himself.' ^ Conse- 
quently, whenever you want to praise any one, think what 
you would urge people to do ; and when you want to urge 
the doing of anything, think what you would praise a man 
for having done. Since suggestion may or may not forbid 
an action, the praise into which we convert it must have one 
or other of two opposite forms of expression accordingly. 

There are, also, many useful ways of heightening the 10 
effect of praise. We must, for instance, point out that a 
man is the only one, or the first, or almost the only one who 
has done something, or that he has done it better than any 
one else ; all these distinctions are honourable. And we 
must, further, make much of the particular season and 
occasion of an action, arguing that we could hardly have 

' In other words, felicitation and congratulation are synonymous 
' Cp. I Socrates, Evagoras § 45 and Panath. § 32. 


looked for it just then. If a man has often achieved the 
same success, we must mention this ; that is a strong point ; 

15 he himself, and not luck, will then be given the credit. So, 
too, if it is on his account that observances have been devised 
and instituted to encourage or honour such achievements as 
his own : thus we may praise Hippolochus because the first 
encomium ever made was for him, or Harmodius and 
Aristogeiton because their statues were the first to be put up 
in the market-place. And we may censure bad men for the 
opposite reason. 

Again, if you cannot find enough to say of a man himself, 

30 you may pit him against others, which is what Isocrates used 
to do owing to his want of familiarity with forensic pleading.^ 
The comparison should be with famous men ; that will 
strengthen your case ; ^ it is a noble thing to surpass men 
who are themselves great. It is only natural that methods 
of ' heightening the effect ' ^ should be attached particularly 
to speeches of praise ; they aim at proving superiority over 
others^ and any such superiority is a form of nobleness. 
Hence if you cannot compare your hero with famous 

35 men, you should at least compare him with other people 
generally, since any superiority is held to reveal excellence. 
And, in general, of the lines of argument which are common 
to all speeches, this ' heightening of effect ' is most suitable 
for declamations, where we take our hero's actions as 
admitted facts, and our business is simply to invest these 
with dignity and nobility. ' Examples ' ^ are most suitable 

30 to deliberative speeches ; for we judge of future events by 
divination from past events. Enthymemes are most 
suitable to forensic speeches; it is our doubts about past 
events that most admit of arguments showing why a thing 
must have happened or proving that it did happen. 

* (jvvfi6ei<ip (' familiarity,' instead of * want of familiarity '), the reading 
of the inferior manuscripts, may be thought to be more in keeping with 
the context here and also with the tenourof iii, c. 13 : notwithstanding 
that iwTijr<ip<t^oXii has a wider meaning in iii. 1 3 and iii. 19 than here. But 
Isocrates does not seem to have had much actual practice as a pleader 
in the law-courts, though he wrote speeches for the use of litigants. 

* av^rjTiKov and nv^r](Ti<: indicate rhetorical efforts to magnify, extol, 
amplify. Cp. 1368'' 10 and ii, c. 26. 

^ i e. arguments from parallel cases. 

BOOK I. 9 1368* 

The above are the general h'nes on which all, or nearly 
all, speeches of praise or blame are constructed. We have 
seen the sort of thing we must bear in mind in making such 
speeches, and the materials out of which encomiums and 35 
censures are made. No special treatment of censure and 
vituperation is needed. Knowing the above facts, we know 
their contraries ; and it is out of these that speeches of 
censure are made. 

10 We have next to treat of Accusation and Defence, and to isSS** 
enumerate and describe the ingredients of the syllogisms 
used therein. There are three things we must ascertain — 
first, the nature and number of the incentives to wrong- 
doing ; second, the state of mind of wrongdoers ; third, the 
kind of persons who are wronged, and their condition. We 5 
will deal with these questions in order. But before that let 
us define the act of ' wrong-doing '. 

We may describe ' wrong-doing ' as injury voluntarily 
inflicted contrary to law. * Law ' is either special or general. 
By special law I mean that written law which regulates the life 
of a particular community; by general law, all those unwritten 
principles which are supposed to be acknowledged every- 
where. We do things 'voluntarily' when we do them con- 10 
sciously and without constraint. (Not all voluntary ^ acts are 
deliberate, but all deliberate acts are conscious ^ — no one is 
ignorant of what he deliberately intends.) The causes of 
our deliberately intending harmful and wicked acts contrary 
to law are (i) vice, (2) lack of self-control.^ For the wrongs 
a man does to others will correspond to the bad quality or 15 
qualities that he himself possesses. Thus it is the mean 
man who will wrong others about money, the profligate in 
matters of physical pleasure, the effeminate in matters of 
comfort, and the coward where danger is concerned — his 
ten'or makes him abandon those who are involved in the 
same danger. The ambitious man * does wrong for the sake 
of honour, the quick-tempered from anger, the lover of 20 
victory for the sake of victory, the embittered man for the 
sake of revenge, the stupid man because he has misguided 

' i. e. and therefore conscious. * i. e. and therefore voluntary. 

* i. e. moral weakness. * Greek, 'the honour-loving man '. 


notions of right and wrong, the shameless man because he 
does not mind what people think of him ; and so with the 
rest — any wrong that any one does to others corresponds to 
his particular faults of character.^ 

25 However, this subject has already been cleared up in part 
in our discussion of the virtues ^ and will be further 
explained later when we treat of the emotions.' We have 
now to consider the motives and states of mind of wrong- 
doers, and to whom they do wrong. 

Let us first decide what sort of things people are trying 
to get or avoid when they set about doing wrong to others. 
For it is plain that the prosecutor must consider, out of all 

30 the aims that can ever induce us to do wrong to our 
neighbours, how many, and which, affect his adversary ; 
while the defendant must consider how many, and which, 
do not affect him. Now every action of every person either 
is or is not due to that person himself. Of those not due to 
himself some are due to chance, the others to necessity ; 

35 of these latter, again, some are due to compulsion, the others 
to nature. Consequently all actions that are not due to a 
man himself are due either to chance or to nature or to 
1369* compulsion. All actions that are due to a man himself and 
caused by himself are due either to habit or to rational or 
irrational craving. Rational craving is a craving for good, 
i. e. a wish — nobody wishes for anything unless he thinks it 
good. Irrational craving is twofold, viz. anger and appetite.* 
5 Thus every action must be due to one or other of seven 
causes : chance, nature, compulsion, habit, reasoning, anger, 
or appetite. It is superfluous further to distinguish actions 
according to the doers' ages, moral states, or the like ; it is 
of course true that, for instance, young men do have hot 
tempers and strong appetites ; still, it is not through youth 

10 that they act accordingly, but through anger or appetite. 
Nor, again, is action due to wealth or poverty ; it is of 

' Lit., 'and similarly each of the other people (who do wrong to 
others does it) with reference to his particular part of the subject- 
matter (of bad character) '. Cp. vn-oKft^eVwi' rtfwv Trpo'y^drtoj', 1359'' 15. 

* i, c. 9. * ii, cc. l-ll. 

* Full stop after fnidvfxia. In translating fmBvfua, ' desire ' has some- 
times been used, as well as ' appetite '. 

BOOK I. lo 1369" 

course true that poor men, being short of money, do have 
an appetite for it, and that rich men, being able to command 
needless pleasures, do have an appetite for such pleasures : 
but here, again, their actions will be due not to wealth or 
poverty but to appetite. Similarly, with just men, and 
unjust men, and all others who are said to act in accordance 15 
with their moral qualities, their actions will really be due to 
one of the causes mentioned — either reasoning or emotion : 
due, indeed, sometimes to good dispositions and good 
emotions, and sometimes to bad ; but that good qualities 
should be followed by good emotions, and bad by bad, is 
merely an accessory fact — it is no doubt true that the 20 
temperate man, for instance, because he is temperate, is 
always and at once attended by healthy opinions and 
appetites in regard to pleasant things, and the intemperate 
man by unhealthy ones. So we must ignore such distinctions. 
Still we must consider what kinds of actions and of people 
usually go together ; for while there are no definite kinds of 
action associated with the fact that a man is fair or dark, 2;, 
tall or short, it does make a difference if he is young or old, 
just or unjust. And, generally speaking, all those accessory 
qualities that cause distinctions of human character are 
important : e. g. the sense of wealth or poverty, of being 
lucky or unlucky. This shall be dealt with later ^ — let us 
now deal first with the rest of the subject before us. 30 

The things that happen by chance are all those whose 
cause cannot be determined, that have no purpose, and that 
happen neither always nor usually nor in any fixed way. 
The definition of chance shows just what they are. Those 
things happen by nature which have a fixed and internal 35 
cause ; they take place uniformly, either always or usually. 1369** 
There is no need to discuss in exact detail the things that 
happen contrary to nature, nor to ask whether they happen 
in some sense naturally or from some other cause ; it would 
seem that chance is at least partly the cause of such events. 
Those things happen through compulsion which take place 5 
contrary to the desire or reason of the doer, yet through 
his own agency. Acts are done from habit which men do 

' ii, cc. 12-17. 

1369*' RHETORIC A 

because they have often done them before. Actions are 
due to reasoning when, in view of any of the goods already 
mentioned,^ they appear useful either as ends or as means to 
an end, and are performed for that reason : ' for that reason,' 

10 since even licentious persons perform a certain number 
of useful actions, but because they are pleasant and not 
because they are useful. To passion and anger are due all 
acts of revenge. Revenge and punishment are different 
things. Punishment is inflicted for the sake of the person 
punished ; revenge for that of the punisher, to satisfy his 
feelings. (What anger is will be made clear when we come 

15 to discuss the emotions.^) Appetite is the cause of all 
actions that appear pleasant. Habit, whether acquired by 
mere familiarity or by effort, belongs to the class of pleasant 
things, for there are many actions not naturally pleasant 
which men perform with pleasure, once they have become 
used to them. To sum up then, all actions due to ourselves 

30 either are or seem to be either good or pleasant. Moreover, 
as all actions due to ourselves are done voluntarily and 
actions not due to ourselves are done involuntarily, it follows 
that all voluntary actions must either be or seem to be either 
good or pleasant ; for I reckon among goods escape from 
evils or apparent evils and the exchange of a greater evil 

25 for a less (since these things are in a sense positively 
desirable), and likewise I count among pleasures escape 
from painful or apparently painful things and the exchange 
of a greater pain for a less. We must ascertain, then, the 
number and nature of the things that are useful and pleasant. 
The useful has been previously examined in connexion with 

30 political oratory ; ^ let us now proceed to examine the 
pleasant. Our various definitions must be regarded as 
adequate, even if they are not exact, provided they are clear. 

We may lay it down that Pleasure is a movement, a li 

movement by which the soul as a whole is consciously 

brought into its normal state of being ; and that Pain is the 

1370* opposite. If this is what pleasure is, it is clear that the 

pleasant is what tends to produce this condition, while that 

* i, c. 6. ' ii, c. 2. ' i, c. 6. 

BOOK I. II 1370" 

which tends to destroy it, or to cause the soul to be brought 
into the opposite state, is painful. It must therefore be 
pleasant as a rule to move towards a natural state of being, 
particularly when a natural process has achieved the 
complete recovery of that natural state. Habits also are 5 
pleasant ; for as soon as a thing has become habitual, it is 
virtually natural ; habit is a thing not unlike nature ; what 
happens often is akin to what happens always, natural 
events happening always, habitual events often. Again, that 
is pleasant which is not forced on us ; for force is unnatural, 
and that is why what is compulsory is painful, and it has 
been rightly said 10 

All that is done on compulsion is bitterness unto the soul.^ 

So all acts of concentration, strong effort, and strain are 
necessarily painful ; they all involve compulsion and force, 
unless we are accustomed to them, in which case it is 
custom that makes them pleasant. The opposites to these 
are pleasant ; and hence ease, freedom from toil, relaxation, 15 
amusement, rest, and sleep belong to the class of pleasant 
things ; for these are all free from any element of compulsion. 
Everything, too, is pleasant for which we have the desire 
within us, since desire is the craving for pleasure. Of the 
desires some are irrational, some associated with reason.^ 
By irrational I mean those which do not arise from any 
opinion held by the mind. Of this kind are those known ao 
as * natural ' ; for instance, those originating in the body, 
such as the desire for nourishment, namely hunger and 
thirst, and a separate kind of desire answering to each kind 
of nourishment ; and the desires connected with taste and 
sex and sensations of touch in general ; and those of smell, 
hearing, and vision. Rational desires are those which we 25 
are induced to have ; there are many things we desire to 
see or get because we have been told of them and induced 
to believe them good. Further, pleasure is the conscious- 
ness through the senses of a certain kind of emotion ; but 
imagination ^ is a feeble sort of sensation, and there will 

' Evenus, fragm. 8, Bergk*. 

* ' are accompanied, or not accompanied, by a rational principle.' 

' cf>nvrnaia, ' mental picturing', 'fancy', 'impression.' 

64S.10 E 


always be in the mind of a man who remembers or expects 
30 something an image or picture of what he remembers or 
expects. If this is so, it is clear that memory and 
expectation also, being accompanied by sensation, may be 
accompanied by pleasure. It follows that anything pleasant 
is either present and perceived, past and remembered, or 
future and expected, since we perceive present pleasures, 
remember past ones, and expect future ones. Now the 
1370'' things that are pleasant to remember are not only those 
that, when actually perceived as present, were pleasant, but 
also some things that were not, provided that their results 
have subsequently proved noble and good. Hence the words 

Sweet 'tis when rescued to remember pain,^ 

5 Even his griefs are a joy long after to one that remembers 
All that he wrought and endured.'^ 

The reason of this is that it is pleasant even to be merely 
free from evil. The things it is pleasant to expect are 
those that when present are felt to afford us either great 
delight or great but not painful benefit. And in general, 
all the things that delight us when they are present also do 
10 so, as a rule, when we merely remember or expect them. 
Hence even being angry is pleasant — Homer said of wrath 

Sweeter it is by far than the honeycomb dripping with 
sweetness ^ — 

for no one grows angry with a person on whom there is no 
prospect of taking vengeance, and we feel comparatively 
little anger, or none at all, with those who are much our 

15 superiors in power. Some pleasant feeling is associated 
with most of our appetites; we are enjoying either the 
memory of a past pleasure or the expectation of a future 
one, just as persons down with fever, during their attacks of 
thirst, enjoy remembering the drinks they have had and 
looking forward to having more. So also a lover enjoys 

30 talking or writing about his loved one, or doing any little 

' Euripides, Andromeda, fragm. 133 N', 
' Cp. Odyssey, xv. 400, 401. 
' Iliad, xviii. 109. 

BOOK I II 1370" 

thing connected with him ; all these things recall him to 
memory and make him actually present to the eye of 
imagination. Indeed, it is always the first sign of love, that 
besides enjoying some one's presence, we remember him 
when he is gone, and feel pain as well as pleasure, because 
he is there no longer. Similarly there is an element of 
pleasure even in mourning and lamentation for the departed. ^5 
There is grief, indeed, at his loss, but pleasure in remember- 
ing him and as it were seeing him before us in his deeds 
and in his life. We can well believe the poet when he says 

He spake, and in each man's heart he awakened the love 
of lament.^ 

Revenge, too, is pleasant ; it is pleasant to get anything that 
it is painful to fail to get, and angry people suffer extreme 30 
pain when they fail to get their, revenge ; but they enjoy 
the prospect of getting it. Victory also is pleasant, and 
not merely to ' bad losers ', but to every one ; the winner sees 
himself in the light of a champion, and everybody has a 
more or less keen appetite for being that. The pleasantness 
of victory implies of course that combative sports and 
intellectual contests are pleasant (since in these it often 1371* 
happens that some one wins ^) and also games like knuckle- 
bones, ball, dice, and draughts. And similarly with the 
serious sports ; some of these become pleasant when one is 
accustomed to them ; while others are pleasant from the 
first, like hunting with hounds, or indeed any kind of 
hunting. For where there is competition, there is victory. 5 
That is why forensic pleading and debating contests are 
pleasant to those who are accustomed to them and have the 
capacity for them. Honour and good repute are among 
the most pleasant things of all ; they make a man see 
himself in the character of a fine fellow, especially when he 
is credited with it by people whom he thinks good judges. 10 
His neighbours are better judges than people at a distance ; 
his associates and fellow-countrymen better than strangers ; 
his contemporaries better than posterity ; sensible persons 

' Iliad., xxiii. 108 ; Odyssey, iv. 183. 

* Apparently one of the mild witticisms occasionally found in the 
Rhetoric. But cp. lines 5 and 6 below. 

E 2 


better than foolish ones ; a large number of people better 
than a small number : those of the former class, in each 
case, are the more likely to be good judges of him. Honour 
and credit bestowed by those whom you think much inferior 

i.s to yourself — e.g. children or animals — you do not value: 
not for its own sake, anyhow : if you do value it, it is for 
some other reason. Friends belong to the class of pleasant 
things ; it is pleasant to love — if you love wine, you 
certainly find it delightful: and it is pleasant to be loved, 
for this too makes a man see himself as the possessor of 

30 goodness, a thing that every being that has a feeling for it 
desires to possess : to be loved means to be valued for one's 
own personal qualities. To be admired is also pleasant, 
simply because of the honour implied. Flattery and 
flatterers are pleasant : the flatterer is a man who, you 
believe, admires and likes you. To do the same thing often 

35 is pleasant, since, as we saw, anything habitual is pleasant.^ 
And to change is also pleasant : change means an approach 
to nature, whereas invariable repetition of anything causes 
the excessive prolongation of a settled condition : therefore, 
says the poet, 

Change is in all things sweet.'^ 

That IS why what comes to us only at long intervals is 
pleasant, whether it be a person or a thing ; for it is a 
change from what we had before, and, besides, what comes 
30 only at long intervals has the value of rarity. Learning 
things and wondering at things are also pleasant as a rule ; 
wondering implies the desire of learning,^ so that the object 
of wonder is an object of desire ; while in learning one is 
brought into one's natural condition. Conferring and 
receiving benefits belong to the class of pleasant things ; to 
receive a benefit is to get what one desires ; to confer a 
iSyi** benefit implies both possession and superiority^ both of 
which are things we try to attain. It is because beneficent 
acts are pleasant that people find it pleasant to put their 
neighbours straight again and to supply what they lack. 

' i, c. 10, 1369'' 16. * Euripides, Orestes, 234. 

^ Retaining nad(\v. 

BOOK I. II 1371* 

Again, since learning and wondering are pleasant, it follows 
that such things as acts of imitation must be pleasant — 5 
for instance, painting, sculpture, poetry — and every product 
of skilful imitation ; this latter, even if the object imitated 
is not itself pleasant ; for it is not the object itself which 
here gives delight ; the spectator draws inferences (* That 
is a so-and-so ') and thus learns something fresh.^ Dramatic 10 
turns of fortune and hairbreadth escapes from perils are 
pleasant, because we feel all such things are wonderful. 

And since what is natural is pleasant, and things akin to 
each other seem natural to each other, therefore all kindred 
and similar things are usually pleasant to each other ; for 
instance, one man, horse, or young person is pleasant to 
another man, horse, or young person. Hence the proverbs 15 
' mate delights mate ', ' like to like ',^ ' beast knows beast ', 
'jackdaw to jackdaw', and the rest of them. But since 
everything like and akin to oneself is pleasant, and since 
every man is himself more like and akin to himself than 
any one else is, it follows that all of us must be more or less 
fond of ourselves. For all this resemblance and kinship is 20 
present particularly in the relation of an individual to 
himself. And because we are all fond of ourselves, it 
follows that what is our own is pleasant to all of us, as for 
instance our own deeds and words. That is why we are 
usually fond of our flatterers, [our lovers,] and honour ; also 
of our children, for our children are our own work. It is 
also pleasant to complete what is defective, for the whole 35 
thing thereupon becomes our own work. And since power 
over others is very pleasant, it is pleasant to be thought 
wise, for practical wisdom secures us power over others. 
(Scientific wisdom is also pleasant, because it is the know- 
ledge of many wonderful things.) Again, since most of 
us are ambitious, it must be pleasant to disparage our 
neighbours as well as to have power ^ over them. It is 
pleasant for a man to spend his time over what he feels he 30 
can do best ; just as the poet says, 

* Cp. Poetics, c. 4, 1448'' 5-19. 

' Odyssey^ xvii. 218. 

' Retaining ««» to ap)^fiv. 


To that he bends himself, 
To that each day allots most time, wherein 
He is indeed the best part of himself.^ 

Similarly, since amusement and every kind of relaxation and 
laughter too belong to the class of pleasant things, it follows 
that ludicrous things are pleasant, whether men, words, or 
1372* deeds. We have discussed the ludicrous separately in the 
treatise on the Art of Poetry.^ 

So much for the subject of pleasant things : by consider- 
ing their opposites we can easily see what things are 

The above are the motives that make men do wrong to 12 
others ; we are next to consider the states of mind in which 
5 they do it, and the persons to whom they do it. 

They must themselves suppose that the thing can be 
done, and done by them : either that they can do it without 
being found out, or that if they are found out they can 
escape being punished, or that if they are punished the 
disadvantage will be less than the gain for themselves or 
those they care for. The general subject of apparent 
possibility and impossibility will be handled later on,^ 
10 since it is relevant not only to forensic but to all kinds of 
speaking. But it may here be said that people think that 
they can themselves most easily do wrong to others without 
being punished for it if they possess eloquence, or practical 
ability, or much legal experience, or a large body of friends, 
or a great deal of money. Their confidence is greatest if 
they personally possess the advantages mentioned : but even 
without them they are satisfied if they have friends or 
15 supporters or partners who do possess them : they can thus 
both commit their crimes and escape being found out and 
punished for committing them. They are also safe, they 
think, if they are on good terms with their victims or with 
the judges who try them. Their victims will in that 
case not be on their guard against being wronged, and 

^ Euripides, fragm. 183 N^ 

* Not found in the Poetics, as it exists to-day. Aristotle probably 
analysed the causes and conditions of laughter, when treating of 
Comedy in his lost Second Book. 

=> ii, c. 19. 

BOOK I. 12 1372^ 

will make some arrangement with tbjm instead of pro- 
secuting ; while their judges will favour them because ao 
they like them, either letting them off altogether or im- 
posing light sentences. They are not likely to be found 
out if their appearance contradicts the charges that might 
be brought against them : for instance, a weakling is unlikely 
to be charged with violent assault, or a poor and ugly man 
with adultery. Public and open injuries are the easiest to 
do, because nobody could at all suppose them possible, and 
therefore no precautions are taken. The same is true of 
crimes so great and terrible that no man living could be 25 
suspected of them : here too no precautions are taken. 
For all men guard against ordinary offences,^ just as they 
guard against ordinary diseases ; but no one takes precau- 
tions against a disease that nobody has ever had. You feel 
safe, too, if you have either no enemies or a great many ; 
if you have none, you expect not to be watched and there- 
fore not to be detected ; if you have a great many, you 
will be watched, and therefore people ^ will think you can 3° 
never risk an attempt on them, and you can defend your 
innocence by pointing out that you could never have taken 
such a risk. You may also trust to hide your crime by 
the way you do it or the place you do it in, or by some 
convenient means of disposal. 

You may feel that even if you are found out you can stave 
off a trial, or have it postponed, or corrupt your judges : 
or that even if you are sentenced you can avoid paying 
damages, or can at least postpone doing so for a long time : 35 
or that you are so badly off that you will have nothing to 
lose.^ You may feel that the gain to be got by wrong- 
doing is great or certain or immediate, and that the penalty 
is small or uncertain or distant. It may be that the 1372* 
advantage to be gained is greater than any possible retribu- 
tion : as in the case of despotic power, according to the 
popular view. You may consider your crimes as bringing 
you solid profit, while their punishment is nothing more than 

* Retaining Knl TdSiKTjfiara. 

"^ i. e. the victims of the injustice. 

' Inserting, or supplying, d after 7 : cp. /x/^StV. 


being called bad names. Or the opposite argument may 
appeal to you : your crimes may bring you some credit (thus 
5 you may, incidentally, be avenging your father or mother, like 
Zeno), whereas the punishment may amount to a fine, or ban- 
ishment, or something of that sort. People may be led on to 
wrong others by either of these motives or feelings ; but 
no man by both — they will affect people of quite opposite 
characters. You may be encouraged by having often 
escaped detection or punishment already; or by having 

lo often tried and failed ; for in crime, as in war, there are men 
who will always refuse to give up the struggle. You may 
get your pleasure on the spot and the pain later, or the 
gain on the spot and the loss later. That is what appeals 
to weak-willed persons — and weakness of will may be 
shown with regard to all the objects of desire. It may on 
the contrary appeal to you — as it does appeal to self- 
controlled and sensible people — that the pain and loss are 

15 immediate, while the pleasure and profit come later and 
last longer. You may feel able to make it appear that your 
crime was due to chance, or to necessity, or to natural 
causes, or to habit : in fact, to put it generally, as if you had 
failed to do right rather than actually done wrong. You may 
be able to trust other people to judge you equitably. You 
may be stimulated by being in want : which may mean that 

20 you want necessaries, as poor people do, or that you want 
luxuries, as rich people do. You may be encouraged by 
having a particularly good reputation, because that will save 
you from being suspected : or by having a particularly bad 
one, because nothing you are likely to do will make it worse. 
The above, then, are the various states of mind in which 
a man sets about doing wrong to others. The kind of 
people to whom he does wrong, and the ways in which he 
does it, must be considered next. The people to whom he 
does it are those who have what he wants himself, whether 

35 this means necessities or luxuries and materials for enjoy- 
ment.^ His victims may be far off or near at hand. If they 
are near, he gets his profit quickly ; if they are far off, ven- 

' Colon after aiToXavaip. 


BOOK I. 12 1372' 

geance is slow, as those think who plunder the Carthaginians. 
They may be those who are trustful instead of being cautious 
and watchful, since all such people are easy to elude. Or 
those who are too easy-going to have enough energy to 
prosecute an offender. Or sensitive people, who are not apt 30 
to show fight over questions of money. Or those who have 
been wronged already by many people, and yet have not 
prosecuted ; such men must surely be the proverbial ' Mysian 
prey'.^ Or those who have either never or often been 
wronged before ; in neither case will they take precautions ; 
if they have never been wronged they think they never will, 
and if they have often been wronged they feel that surely it 
cannot happen again. Or those whose character has been 33 
attacked in the past, or is exposed to attack in the future : 
they will be too much frightened of the judges to make up 
their minds to prosecute,^ nor can they win their case if they 
do : this is true of those who are hated or unpopular.^ An- 1373 
other likely class of victim is those who their injurer can 
pretend have, themselves or through their ancestors or 
friends, treated badly, or intended to treat badly, the man 
himself, or his ancestors, or those he cares for ; as the 
proverb says, ' wickedness needs but a pretext '. A man may 
wrong his enemies, because that is pleasant : he may equally 
wrong his friends, because that is easy. Then there are those 
who have no friends, and those who lack eloquence and 5 
practical capacity ; these will either not attempt to prosecute, 
or they will come to terms, or failing that they will lose their 
case. There are those whom it does not pay to waste time 
in waiting for trial or damages, such as foreigners and small 
farmers ; they will settle for a trifle, and always be ready 
to leave off. Also those who have themselves wronged 
others, either often, or in the same way as they are now 10 
being wronged themselves — for it is felt that next to no 
wrong is done to people when it is the same wrong as they 
have often themselves done to others : if, for instance, you 
assault a man who has been accustomed to behave with 

^ i.e. an easy prey. 

^ €iTf$i(vai is perhaps not needed in the Greek text. 
Reading Syv oi fjnaovfttvoi kiu (^dofou/xccoi ftaiv. 



violence to others. So too with those who have done 
wrong to others, or have meant to, or mean to, or are likely 

15 to do so; there is something fine and pleasant in wronging 
such persons, it seems as though almost no wrong were 
done. Also those by doing wrong to whom we shall be 
gratifying our friends, or those we admire or love, or our 
masters, or in general the people by reference to whom we 
mould our lives. Also those whom we may wrong and 
yet be sure of equitable treatment. Also those against 
whom we have had any grievance, or any previous differences 
with them, as Callippus had when he behaved as he did to 

20 Dion : here too it seems as if almost no wrong were being 
done. Also those who are on the point of being wronged 
by others if we fail to wrong them ourselves, since here we 
feel we have no time left for thinking the matter over. So 
Aenesidemus is said to have sent the ' cottabus ' prize to 
Gelon, who had just reduced a town to slavery, because 
Gelon had got there first and forestalled his own attempt. 
Also those by wronging whom we shall be able to do 

35 many righteous acts ; for we feel that we can then easily 
cure the harm done. Thus Jason the Thessalian said that 
it is a duty to do some unjust acts in order to be able to do 
many just ones. 

Among the kinds of wrong done to others are those that 
are done universally, or at least commonly : one expects to 
be forgiven for doing these. Also those that can easily be 
kept dark, as where things that can rapidly be consumed 

30 like eatables are concerned, or things that can easily be 
changed in shape, colour, or combination, or things that can 
easily be stowed away almost anywhere — portable objects 
that you can stow away in small corners, or things so like 
others of which you have plenty already that nobody can tell 
the difference. There are also wrongs of a kind that shame 
prevents the victim speaking about, such as outrages done 

35 to the women in his household or to himself or to his sons. 
Also those for which you would be thought very litigious to 
prosecute any one — trifling wrongs, or wrongs for which 
people are usually excused. 

The above is a fairly complete account of the circum- 

BOOK T. 12 1373' 

stances under which men do wrong to others, of the sort of 
wrongs they do, of the sort of persons to whom they do 
them, and of their reasons for doing them. 

It will now be well to make a complete classification of 1373*' 
just and unjust actions. We may begin by observing that 
they have been defined relatively to two kinds of law, and 
also relatively to two classes of persons. By the two kinds 
of law I mean particular law and universal law. Particular 
law is that which each community lays down and applies to 
its own members : this is partly written and partly unwritten. 5 
Universal law is the law of nature. For there really is, as 
every one to some extent divines, a natural justice and 
injustice that is binding on all men, even on those who have 
no association or covenant with each other. It is this that 
Sophocles' Antigone clearly means when she says that the 
burial of Polyneices was a just act in spite of the 10 
prohibition : she means that it was just by nature. 

Not of to-day or yesterday it is. 

But lives eternal : none can date its birth.^ 

And so Empedocles, when he bids us kill no living creature, 
says that doing this is not just for some people while unjust 
for others, 15 

Nay, but, an all-embracing law, through the realms of 

the sky 
Unbroken it stretcheth, and over the earth's immensity.'^ 

And as Alcidamas ^ says in his Messeniac Oration. . . . 

The actions that we ought to do or not to do have also 
been divided into two classes as affecting either the whole 
community or some one of its members. From this point 20 
of view we can perform just or unjust acts in either of two 
ways — towards one definite person, or towards the com- 
munity. The man who is guilty of adultery or assault is 
doing wrong to some definite person ; the man who avoids 
service in the army is doing wrong to the community. 

^ Sophocles, Antigone, 456, 7 {ravra^ not roxnoy in Sophocles). 

^ Empedocles, 380, Cp. Diels, Vors^, i, p. 275 ; Burnet, Early. 
Greek Philosophy^, p. 225. 

* According to the scholiast, the words of Alcidamas were, ' God has 
left all men free ; Nature has made no man a slave '. Cp. Baiter- 
Sauppe, Or. Att., Pt. ii, p. 154 (.A,lcid., Messen., fragm. i). 


25 Thus the whole class of unjust actions may be divided 
into two classes, those affecting the community, and those 
affecting one or more other persons. We will next, 
before going further, remind ourselves of what * being 
wronged ' means. Since it has already ^ been settled that 
'doing a wrong' must be intentional, 'being wronged' must 
consist in having an injury done to you by some one who 
intends to do it. In order to be wronged, a man must 

30 (1) suffer actual harm, (2) suffer it against his will. The 
various possible forms of harm are clearly explained by our 
previous ^ separate discussion of goods and evils. We have 
also seen that a voluntary action is one where the doer 
knows what he is doing.^ We now see that every accusation 
must be of an action affecting either the community or some 
individual. The doer of the action must either understand 

35 and intend the action, or not understand and intend it. In 
the former case, he must be acting either from deliberate 
choice or from passion. (Anger will be discussed when we 
speak of the passions * ; the motives for crime and the state 
of mind of the criminal have already ^ been discussed.) Now 
1374^ it often happens that a man will admit an act, but will not 
admit the prosecutor's label ^ for the act nor the facts which 
that label implies. He will admit that he took a thing but 
not that he ' stole ' it ; that he struck some one first, but not 
that he committed ' outrage ' ; that he had intercourse with 
a woman, but not that he committed 'adultery' ; that he is 
guilty of theft, but not that he is guilty of ' sacrilege ', the 
object stolen not being consecrated ; that he has encroached, 
5 but not that he has ' encroached on State lands ' ; that he 
has been in communication with the enemy, but not that 
he has been guilty of ' treason '. Here therefore we must 
be able to distinguish what is theft, outrage, or adultery, 
from what is not, if we are to be able to make the justice of 
our case clear, no matter whether our aim is to establish 
a man's guilt or to establish his innocence. Wherever such 

10 charges are brought against a man, the question is whether 

' i, c. 10, * i, c. 6. ' i, c. 10. * ii, c. 2. 

" i, cc. II and 12. 

• ('niypafifxn : a specification or description of the alleged offence, a claim for a corresponding penalty. 

BOOK I. 13 !374' 

he is or is not guilty of a criminal offence. It is deliberate 
purpose that constitutes wickedness and criminal guilt, and 
such names as ' outrage ' or ' theft ' imply deliberate purpose 
as well as the mere action. A blow does not always amount 
to 'outrage ', but only if it is struck with some such purpose 
as to insult the man struck or gratify the striker himself. 
Nor does taking a thing without the owner's knowledge 15 
always amount to * theft ', but only if it is taken with the 
intention of keeping it and injuring the owner. And as 
with these charges, so with all the others. 

We saw that there are two kinds of right and wrong con- 
duct towards others, one provided for by written ordinances, 
the other by unwritten. We have now discussed the kind 
about which the laws have something to say. The other 20 
kind has itself two varieties. First, there is the conduct 
that springs from exceptional goodness or badness, and is 
visited accordingly with censure and loss of honour, or with 
praise and increase of honour and decorations : for instance, 
gratitude to, or requital of, our benefactors, readiness to 
help our friends, and the like. The second kind makes up 
for the defects of a community's written code of law. This 25 
is what we call equity ; people regard it as just ; it is, in fact, 
the sort of justice which goes beyond the written law. Its 
existence partly is and partly is not intended by legislators ; 
not intended, where they have noticed no defect in the law ; 
intended, where they find themselves unable to define things 30 
exactly, and are obliged to legislate as if that held good 
always which in fact only holds good usually ; or where it 
is not easy to be complete owing to the endless possible 
cases presented, such as the kinds and sizes of weapons that 
may be used to inflict wounds — a lifetime would be too short 
to make out a complete list of these. If, then, a precise 
statement is impossible and yet legislation is necessary, the 
law must be expressed in wide terms ; and so, if a man 35 
has no more than a finger-ring on his hand when he lifts it 
to strike or actually strikes another man, he is guilty of 
a criminal act according to the written words of the law ; 
but he is innocent really, and it is equity that declares him 1374* 
to be so. From this definition of equity it is plain what 


sort of actions, and what sort of persons, are equitable or 
the reverse. Equity must be applied to forgivable actions ; 
and it must make us distinguish between criminal acts on 
5 the one hand, and errors of judgement, or misfortunes, on the 
other. (A ' misfortune ' is an actj not due to moral badness, 
that has unexpected results : an 'error of judgement ' is an act, 
also not due to moral badness, that has results that might 
have been expected : a ' criminal act ' has results that 
might have been expected, but is due to moral badness, for 

lo that is the source of all actions inspired by our appetites.) 
Equity bids us be merciful to the weakness of human nature ; 
to think less about the laws than about the man who framed 
them, and less about what he said than about what he 
meant ; not to consider the actions of the accused so much 
as his intentions, nor this or that detail so much as the 

15 whole story ; to ask not what a man is now but what he has 
always or usually been. It bids us remember benefits rather 
than injuries, and benefits received rather than benefits 
conferred ; to be patient when we are wronged ; to settle 
a dispute by negotiation and not by force ; to prefer 

20 arbitration to litigation — for an arbitrator goes by the equity 
of a case, a judge by the strict law, and arbitration was 
invented with the express purpose of securing full power 
for equity. 

The above may be taken as a sufficient account of the 
nature of equity. 

The worse of two acts of wrong done to others is that 14 
35 which is prompted by the worse disposition. Hence the 
most trifling acts may be the worst ones ; as when 
Callistratus charged Melanopus with having cheated the 
temple-builders of three consecrated half-obols. The con- 
verse is true of just acts. This is because the greater is 
here potentially contained in the less : there is no crime that 
a man who has stolen three consecrated half-obols would 
shrink from committing. Sometimes, however, the worse 
30 act is reckoned not in this way but by the greater harm 
that it does. Or it may be because no punishment for it is 
severe enough to be adequate ; or the harm done may be 

BOOK I. 14 1374^ 

incurable — a difficult and even hopeless crime to defend ; ^ 
or the sufferer may not be able to get his injurer legally 
punished, a fact that makes the harm incurable, since legal 
punishment and chastisement are the proper cure. Or 
again, the man who has suffered wrong may have inflicted 
some fearful punishment on himself; then the doer of the 
wrong ought in justice to receive a still more fearful punish- 35 
ment. Thus Sophocles, when pleading for retribution to 
Euctemon, who had cut his own throat because of the 
outrage done to him, said he would not fix a penalty less 1375^ 
than the victim had fixed for himself.^ Again, a man's 
crime is worse if he has been the first man, or the only man, 
or almost the only man, to commit it : or if it is by no 
means the first time he has gone seriously^ wrong in the same 
way : or if his crime has led to the thinking-out and in- 
vention of measures to prevent and punish similar crimes — 
thus in Argos a penalty is inflicted on a man on whose 5 
account a law is passed, and also on those on whose account 
the prison was built : or if a crime is specially brutal, or 
specially deliberate : or if the report of it awakes more terror 
than pity. There are also such rhetorically effective ways 
of putting it as the following : That the accused has dis- 
regarded and broken not one but many solemn obligations 
like oaths, promises, pledges, or rights of intermarriage 10 
between states — here the crime is worse because it consists 
of many crimes ; and that the crime was committed in the 
very place where criminals are punished, as for example 
perjurers do — it is argued that a man who will commit a 
crime in a law-court would commit it anywhere. Further, 
the worse deed is that which involves the doer in special 
shame; that whereby a man wrongs his benefactors— for 
he does more than one wrong, by not merely doing them 
harm but failing to do them good; that which breaks the 15 
unwritten laws of justice — the better sort of man will be 
just without being forced to be so, and the written laws 
depend on force while the unwritten ones do not. It may 

' Or, 'due punishment then being difficult or impossible '. 
* Cp. Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Att., Pt. ii, p. 165. 
' Retaining /^eyn. 


however be argued otherwise, that the crime is worse which 
breaks the written laws : for the man who commits crimes 
for which terrible penalties are provided will not hesitate over 
20 crimes for which no penalty is provided at all. — So much, 
then, for the comparative badness of criminal actions. 

There are also the so-called 'non-technical'^ means of 15 
persuasion ; and we must now take a cursory view of these, 
since they are specially characteristic of forensic orator}\ 
They are five in number : laws, witnesses, contracts, 
tortures, oaths. 

35 First, then, let us take laws and see how they are to be 
used in persuasion and dissuasion,^ in accusation and defence. 
If the written law tells against our case, clearly we^ must 
appeal to the universal law, and insist on its greater equity 
and justice. We must argue that the juror's oath ' I will 
give my verdict according to my honest opinion ' means 

.^o that one will not simply follow the letter of the written law. 
We must urge that the principles of equity are permanent 
and changeless, and that the universal law does not change 
either, for it is the law of nature, whereas written laws often 
do change. This is the bearing of the lines in Sophocles' 
Antigone, where Antigone pleads that in burying her brother 
she had broken Creon's law, but not the unwritten law : 

'375 Not of to-day or yesterday they are, 

But live eternal : (none can date their birth.) 

Not I would fear the wrath of any man, 

(And brave Gods' ven^^cance) for defying these.^ 

We shall argue that justice indeed is true and profitable, but 
that sham justice is not, and that consequently the written 
law is not, because it does not fulfil the true purpose of law. 
5 Or that justice is like silver, and must be assayed by the 
judges, if the genuine is to be distinguished from the 
counterfeit. Or that the better a man is, the more he will 
follow and abide by the unwritten law in preference to the 
written. Or perhaps that the law in question contradicts 

' Cp. C. 2, supra. ^ Retaining koI nporpinoxna koi anorpfnoirru. 

' Here, and in what follows, ' we ' must be taken in a general sense. 
More literally, ' tells against his case, clearly the litigant must. . . . He 
must argue, &c.' So with 'you' elsewhere: e.g. I372'»>'>. 

* Sophocles, Antigone, 456 (rmV oZv Aristotle : rovrtttv Sophocles). 

BOOK I. 15 1375 

some other highly-esteemed law, or even contradicts itself. 
Thus it may be that one law will enact that all contracts 
must be held binding, while another forbids us ever to make 10 
illegal contracts. Or if a law is ambiguous, we shall turn it 
about and consider which construction best fits the interests 
of justice or utility, and then follow that way of looking at 
it. Or if, though the law still exists, the situation to meet 
which it was passed exists no longer, we must do our best 
to prove this and to combat the law thereby. If however 15 
the written law supports our case, we must urge that the 
oath ' to give my verdict according to my honest opinion ' 
is not meant to make the judges give a verdict that is 
contrary to the law, but to save them from the guilt of 
perjury if they misunderstand what the law really means. 
Or that no one chooses what is absolutely good, but every 
one what is good for himself.^ Or that not to use the laws is 
as bad as to have no laws at all. Or that, as in the other 20 
arts, it does not pay to try to be cleverer than the doctor : 
for less harm comes from the doctor's mistakes than from 
the growing habit of disobeying authority. Or that trying 
to be cleverer than the laws is just what is forbidden by those 
codes of law that are accounted best. — So far as the laws 
are concerned, the above discussion is probably sufficient. 3$ 

As to witnesses, they are of two kinds, the ancient and 
the recent ; and these latter, again, either do or do not 
share in the risks of the trial. By 'ancient' witnesses I 
mean the poets and all other notable persons whose judge- 
ments are known to all. Thus the Athenians appealed to 
Homer ^ as a witness about Salamis ; and the men of 30 
Tenedos not long ago appealed to Periander of Corinth in 
their dispute with the people of Sigeum ; and Cleophon 
supported his accusation of Critias by quoting the elegiac 
verse of Solon, maintaining that discipline had long been slack 
in the family of Critias, or Solon would never have written, 

Pray thee, bid the red-haired Critias do what his father 
commands him.^ 

' sc, and our written laws, which were made for us, may not reach 
the abstract ideal of perfection, but they probably suit us better than 
if they did. 

' Iliad, ii. 557. ' Solon, fragm. 22, Bergk^ 

S4M0 F 



These witnesses are concerned with past events. As to 
1376* future events we shall also appeal to soothsayers : thus 
Themistocles ^ quoted the oracle about * the wooden wall ' 
as a reason for engaging the enemy's fleet. Further, 
proverbs are, as has been said,^ one form of evidence. 
Thus if you are urging somebody not to make a friend of 
an old man, you will appeal to the proverb, 
5 Never show an old man kindness.^ 

Or if you are urging that he who has made away with 
fathers should also make away with their sons, quote, 

Fool, who slayeth the father and leaveth his sons to 
avenge him.* 

'Recent' witnesses are well-known people who have ex- 
pressed their opinions about some disputed matter: such 
opinions will be useful support for subsequent disputants on 
the same points : thus Eubulus used in the law-courts against 

10 Chares the reply Plato ^ had made to Archibius, ' It has 
become the regular custom in this country to admit that one 
is a scoundrel '. There are also those witnesses who share 
the risk of punishment if their evidence is pronounced false. 
These are valid witnesses to the fact that an action was or 
was not done, that something is or is not the case ; they 

15 are not valid witnesses to the quality of an action, to its being 
just or unjust, useful or harmful. On such questions o{ quality 
the opinion of detached persons is highly trustworthy. 
Most trustworthy of all are the ' ancient ' witnesses, since 
they cannot be corrupted. 

In dealing with the evidence of witnesses, the following 
are useful arguments. If you have no witnesses on your 
side, you will argue that the judges must decide from what 
is probable ; that this is meant by ' giving a verdict in 
accordance with one's honest opinion' ; that probabilities 

* Herodotus, vii. 141, 143. 

"^ A general statement, apparently. Or possibly (cp. Poetics 1454* 
25) ' proverbs are evidence in the sense indicated ', i. e. evidence of the 
future. But the Greek expression usually has the meaning which it 
bears in (e.g.) ISQS'' 5. 

^ Diogenianus, vi. 61, iii. 89. 

* Stasinus, Cypria^ fragm. 22 (Kinkel, Epicorum Graecorum Frag- 
ment a, i, p. 31). 

' Disputed whether the Comic Poet or the Philosopher. 

BOOK I. 15 1376* 

cannot be bribed to mislead the court ; and that probabili- 20 
ties are never convicted of perjury. If you have witnesses, 
and the other man has not, you will argue that probabilities 
cannot be put on their trial, and that we could do without 
the evidence of witnesses altogether if we need do no more 
than balance the pleas advanced on either side. 

The evidence of witnesses may refer either to ourselves 
or to our opponent ; and either to questions of fact or to 
questions of personal character : so, clearly, we need never 25 
be at a loss for useful evidence. For if we have no evidence 
of fact supporting our own case or telling against that of 
our opponent, at least we can always find evidence to prove 
our own worth or our opponent's worthlessness. Other 
arguments about a witness — that he is a friend or an enemy 
or neutral, or has a good, bad, or indifferent reputation, and 30 
any other such distinctions — we must construct upon the 
same general lines as we use for the regular rhetorical proofs.^ 
Concerning contracts argument can be so far employed 
as to increase or diminish their importance and their 
credibility ; we shall try to increase both if they tell in our 1376^ 
favour, and to diminish both if they tell in favour of our 
opponent. Now for confirming or upsetting the credibility 
of contracts the procedure is just the same as for dealing 
with witnesses, for the credit to be attached to contracts 
depends upon the character of those who have signed them 
or have the custody of them. The contract being once 
admitted genuine, we must insist on its importance, if it 
supports our case. We may argue that a contract is a law, 
though of a special and limited kind ; and that, while 
contracts do not of course make the law binding, the law 
does make any lawful contract binding,'^ and that the law 
itself as a whole is a sort of contract, so that any one who 10 
disregards or repudiates any contract is repudiating the law 
itself. Further, most business relations — those, namely, 
that are voluntary — are regulated by contracts, and if these 
lose their binding force, human intercourse ceases to exist. 
We need not go very deep to discover the other appropriate 

' ' enthymemes ' : cp. ii, c. 23. 

^ Comma (not full stop) after a-vvdrjKas- 

¥ 2 


arguments of this kind. If, however, the contract tells 

15 against us and for our opponents, in the first place those 
arguments are suitable which we can use to fight a law that 
tells against us. We do not regard ourselves as bound to 
observe a bad law which it was a mistake ever to pass : and 
it is ridiculous to suppose that we are bound to observe a 
bad and mistaken contract. Again, we may argue that the 

20 duty of the judge as umpire is to decide what is just, and 
therefore he must ask where justice lies, and not what this 
or that document means. And that it is impossible to 
pervert justice by fraud or by force, since it is founded on 
nature, but a party to a contract may be the victim of 
either fraud or force. Moreover, we must see if the 

25 contract contravenes either universal law or any written law 
of our own or another country ; and also if it contradicts 
any other previous or subsequent contract ; arguing that 
the subsequent is the binding contract, or else that the 
previous one was right and the subsequent one fraudulent — 
whichever way suits us. Further, we must consider the 
question of utility, noting whether the contract is against 

30 the interest of the judges or not ; and so on — these arguments 
are as obvious as the others. 

Examination by torture is one form of evidence, to which 
great weight is often attached because it is in a sense 
compulsory. Here again it is not hard to point out the 
available grounds for magnifying its value, if it happens to 
tell in our favour, and arguing that it is the only form of 
evidence that is infallible ; or, on the other hand, for refuting 
1377* it if it tells against us and for our opponent, when we may 
say what is true of torture of every kind alike, that people 
under its compulsion tell lies quite as often as they tell the 
truth, sometimes persistently refusing to tell the truth, 
5 sometimes recklessly making a false charge in order to be 
let off sooner. We ought to be able to quote cases, 
familiar to the judges, in which this sort of thing has actually 
happened. [We must say that evidence under torture is 
not trustworthy, the fact being that many men whether 
thick-witted,^ tough-skinned, or stout of heart endure their 
' Omitting ol after ■naxv<ppovfs. 

BOOK I. 15 1377* 

ordeal nobly, while cowards and timid men are full of bold- 
ness till they see the ordeal of these others : so that no trust 
can be placed in evidence under torture.] 

In regard to oaths, a fourfold division can be made. A 
man may either both offer and accept an oath,^ or neither, 
or one without the other — that is, he may offer an oath but 
not accept one, or accept an oath but not offer one. There 10 
is also the situation that arises when an oath has already 
been sworn either by himself or by his opponent. 

If you refuse to offer an oath, you may argue that men do 
not hesitate to perjure themselves ; and that if your opponent 
does swear, you lose your money, whereas, if he does not, 
you think the judges will decide against him ; and ^ that the 
risk of an unfavourable verdict is preferable, since you trust 
the judges and do not trust him. 15 

If you refuse to accept an oath, you may argue that an 
oath is always paid for ; that you would of course have 
taken it if you had been a rascal, since if you are a 
rascal you had ^ better make something by it, and you 
would in that case have to swear in order to succeed. 
Thus your refusal, you argue, must be due to high principle, 
not to fear of perjury : and you may aptly quote the saying 
of Xenophanes, 

'Tis not fair that he who fears not God should challenge ao 
him who doth.* 

It is as if a strong man were to challenge a weakh'ng to 
strike, or be struck by, him. 

If you agree to accept an oath, you may argue that you 
trust yourself but not your opponent ; and that (to invert 
the remark of Xenophanes) the fair thing is for the impious 
man to offer the oath and for the pious man to accept it ; 
and that it would be monstrous if you yourself were unwilling 
to accept an oath in a case where you demand that the 

' i. e. both demand an oath from his adversary (call upon him to 
swear to the truth of his statements) and take an oath himself. 

* Retaining kox. 

' nv should perhaps be omitted with the inferior manuscripts. 

* Diels, Vors?, i. 44: read Td<r«3«r, with Bywater (/. 0/ Ph., xxxii, 
p. 116). 


35 judges should do so before giving their verdict. If you 
wish to offer an oath, you may argue that piety disposes 
you to commit the issue to the gods ; and that your 
opponent ought not to want other judges than himself, 
since you leave the decision with him ; and that it is out- 
rageous for your opponents to refuse to swear about this 
question, when they insist that others should do so. 

Now that we see how we are to argue in each case 
separately, we see also how we are to argue when they 

30 occur in pairs, namely, when you are willing to accept the 
oath but not to offer it ; to offer it but not to accept it ; 
both to accept and to offer it ; or to do neither. These are 
1377*' of course combinations of the cases already mentioned, and 
so your arguments also must be combinations of the 
arguments already mentioned. 

If you have already sworn an oath that contradicts your 
present one, you must argue that it is not perjury, since 
perjury is a crime, and a crime must be a voluntary action, 
5 whereas actions due to the force or fraud of others are 
involuntary. You must further reason from this that perjury 
depends on the intention and not on the spoken words. But 
if it is your opponent who has already sworn an oath that 
contradicts his present one, you must say that if he does not 
abide by his oaths he is the enemy of society, and that this 
is the reason why men take an oath before administering 
the laws. ' My opponents insist that you, the judges, must 

10 abide by the oath you have sworn, and yet they are not 
abiding by their own oaths.' ^ And there are other arguments 
which may be used to magnify the importance of the oath. — 
[So much, then, for the ' non-technical ' modes of persuasion.] 

^ After e'fifjLfvovaiv, full stop instead of note of interrogation. 

BOOK II. I 1377 



I We have now considered the materials to be used in 
supporting or opposing a political measure, in pronouncing 
eulogies or censures, and for prosecution and defence in 
the law courts. We have considered the received opinions 
on which we may best base our arguments so as to convince 
our hearers — those opinions with which our enthymemes 
deal, and out of which they are built, in each of the three 
kinds of oratory, according to what may be called the special ao 
needs of each. 

But since rhetoric exists to affect the giving of decisions 
— the hearers decide between one political speaker and 
another, and a legal verdict is a decision — the orator must not 
only try to make the argument of his speech demonstrative 
and worthy of belief; he must also make his own character 
look right and put his hearers, who are to decide, into the 
right frame of mind. Particularly in political oratory, but 
also in lawsuits, it adds much to an orator's influence that 35 
his own character should look right and that he should be 
thought to entertain the right feelings towards his hearers; 
and also that his hearers themselves should be in just the 
right frame of mind. That the orator's own character 
should look right is particularly important in political 
speaking : that the audience should be in the right frame of 30 
mind, in lawsuits. When people are feeling friendly and 
placable, they think one sort of thing; when they are 
feeling angry or hostile, they think either something totally 
different or the same thing with a different intensity : when 1378^ 
they feel friendly to the man who comes before them for 
judgement, they regard him as having done little wrong, if 
any ; when they feel hostile, they take the opposite view. 
Again, if they are eager for, and have good hopes of, a 
thing that will be pleasant if it happens, they think that it 
certainly will happen and be good for them : whereas if 
they are indifferent or annoyed, they do not think so. 5 

There are three things which inspire confidence in the 
orator's own character — the three, namely, that induce us to 

1378'^ RHETORIC A 

believe a thing apart from any proof of it : good sense, 
good moral character, and goodwill. False statements 

lo and bad advice are due to one or more of the following 
three causes. Men either form a false opinion through 
want of good sense ; or they form a true opinion, but 
because of their moral badness do not say what they really 
think ; or finally, they are both sensible and upright, but not 
well disposed to their hearers, and may fail in consequence 
to recommend what they know to be the best course. 
These are the only possible cases. It follows that any one 

15 who is thought to have all three of these good qualities 
will inspire trust in his audience. The way to make 
ourselves thought to be sensible and morally good must be 
gathered from the analysis of goodness already given : ^ the 
way to establish your own goodness is the same as the way 
to establish that of others. Good will and friendliness of 
disposition will form part of our discussion of the emotions,^ 
to which we must now turn. 

ao The Emotions are all those feelings that so change men 
as to affect their judgements, and that are also attended by 
pain or pleasure. Such are anger, pity, fear and the like, 
with their opposites. We must arrange what we have to 
say about each of them under three heads. Take, for 
instance, the emotion of anger: here we must discover (i) 
what the state of mind of angry people is, (2) who the 

35 people are with whom they usually get angry, and (3) on 
what grounds they get angry with them. It is not enough 
to know one or even two of these points ; unless we know 
all three, we shall be unable to arouse anger in any one. 
The same is true of the other emotions. So just as earlier 
in this work we drew up a list of useful propositions for the 

30 orator, let us now proceed in the same way to analyse the 
subject before us. 

Anger may be defined as an impulse, accompanied by a 
pain, to a conspicuous revenge for a conspicuous slight 
directed without justification towards what concerns oneself 
or towards what concerns one's friends. If this is a proper 

* i, c. 9. ' ii, c. 4. 

BOOK II. 2 1378" 

definition of anger, it must always be felt towards some 
particular individual, e. g. Cleon, and not ' man' in general. 
It must be felt because the other has done or intended to 
do something to him or one of his friends. It must always 1378'' 
be attended by a certain pleasure — that which arises from 
the expectation of revenge. For since nobody aims at what 
he thinks he cannot attain, the angry man is aiming at 
what he can attain, and the belief that you will attain your 
aim is pleasant. Hence it has been well said about wrath, 5 

Sweeter it is by far than the honeycomb dripping with 

And spreads through the hearts of men.^ 

It is also attended by a certain pleasure because the thoughts 
dwell upon the act of vengeance, and the images then 
called up cause pleasure, like the images called up in 

Now slighting is the actively entertained opinion of 10 
something as obviously of no importance. We think bad 
things, as well as good ones, have serious importance ; and 
we think the same of anything that tends to produce such 
things, while those which have little or no such tendency 
we consider unimportant. There are three kinds of slight- 
ing — contempt, spite, and insolence. (1) Contempt is one 
kind of slighting: you feel contempt for what you consider 15 
unimportant, and it is just such things that you slight, 
(a) Spite is another kind ; ^ it is a thwarting another man's 
wishes, not to get something yourself but to prevent his 
getting it. The slight arises just from the fact that you do 
not aim at something for yourself: clearly you do not 
think that he can do you harm, for then you would be afraid ao 
of him instead of slighting him, nor yet that he can do you 
any good worth mentioning, for then you would be anxious 
to make friends with him. (3) Insolence is also a form 
of slighting, since it consists in doing and saying things 
that cause shame to the victim, not in order that anything 
may happen to yourself, or because anything has happened a-; 

* liiad, xviii. J09 (cp. i, c. II, 1370^ 12 sttpm). 
' Or, ' spite seems to show contempt ' : if (f)ait'eTai. naraf^povtlv is 


to yourself, but simply for the pleasure involved. (Retalia- 
tion is not ' insolence *, but vengeance.) The cause of the 
pleasure thus enjoyed by the insolent man is that he thinks 
himself greatly Superior to others when ill-treating them. 
That is why youths and rich men are insolent ; they think 
themselves superior when they show insolence. One sort 
of insolence is to rob people of the honour due to them ; 
30 you certainly slight them thus ; for it is the unimportant, 
for good or evil, that has no honour paid to it. So Achilles 
says in anger : 

He hath taken my prize for himself and hath done me 


Like an alien honoured by none,^ 

meaning that this is why he is angry. A man expects to 
be specially respected by his inferiors in birth, in capacity, 
in goodness, and generally in anything in which he^ is 
^379^ much their superior : as where money is concerned a 
wealthy man looks for respect from a poor man ; where 
speaking is concerned, the man with a turn for oratory looks 
for respect from one who cannot speak ; the ruler demands 
the respect of the ruled, and the man who thinks he ought 
lO be a ruler demands the respect of the man whom he 
thinks he ought to be ruling. Hence it has been said 

Great is the wrath of kings, whose father is Zeus almighty,* 


5 Yea, but his rancour abideth long afterward also,° 

their great resentment being due to their great superiority. 
Then again a man looks for respect from those who he thinks 
owe him good treatment, and these are the people whom 
he has treated or is treating well, or means or has meant 
to treat well, either himself, or through his friends, or 
through others at his request. 

It will be plain by now, from what has been said, (i) in 
what frame of mind, (a) with what persons, and (3) on what 

^ Iliad, i. 356. ' lb. ix. 648. 

' Reading rtr (Spengel), in place of rnurn. Or iv ravra ' in any- 
thing common to them and him in which he ', &c. 
♦ J/iai/, ii. 196. ' /<J. i. 82. 

BOOK II. 2 1379 

grounds people grow angry, (i) The frame of mind is 
that in which any pain is being felt. In that condition, 10 
a man is always aiming at something. Whether, then, 
another man opposes him either directly in any way, as by 
preventing him from drinking when he is thirsty, or 
indirectly, the act appears to him just the same ; whether 
some one works against him, or fails to work with him, 
or otherwise vexes him while he is in this mood, he is 
equally angry in all these cases. Hence people who are 15 
afflicted by sickness or poverty or love or thirst or any 
other unsatisfied desires are prone to anger and easily 
roused : especially against those who slight their present 
distress. Thus a sick man is angered by disregard of 
his illness, a poor man by disregard of his poverty, a man 
waging war by disregard of the war he is waging, a lover 
by disregard of his love, and so throughout, any other sort 20 
of slight being enough if special slights are wanting. 
Each man is predisposed, by the emotion now controlling 
him, to his own particular anger. Further, we are angered 
if we happen to be expecting a contrary result : for a quite 
unexpected evil is specially painful, just as the quite 
unexpected fulfilment of our wishes is specially pleasant. 
Hence it is plain what seasons, times, conditions, and 25 
periods of life tend to stir men easily to anger, and 
where and when this will happen ; and it is plain that 
the more we are under these conditions the more easily we 
are stirred. 

These, then, are the frames of mind in which men are 
easily stirred to anger. The persons with whom we get 
angry are those who laugh, mock, or jeer at us, for such 
conduct is insolent. Also those who inflict injuries upon us 
that are marks of insolence. These injuries must be such 30 
as are neither retaliatory nor profitable to the doers : for 
only then will they be felt to be due to insolence. Also 
those who speak ill of us, and show contempt for us, in 
connexion with the things we ourselves most care about : 
thus those who are eager to win fame as philosophers get 
angry with those who show contempt for their philosophy ; 35 
those who pride themselves upon their appearance get angry 


with those who show contempt for their appearance ; and 
so on in other cases. We feel particularly angry on this 
account if we suspect that we are in fact, or that people think 
we are, lacking completely or to any effective extent in the 
1379^ qualities in question. For when we are convinced that we 
excel in the qualities for which we are jeered at, we can 
ignore the jeering. Again, we are angrier with our friends 
than with other people, since we feel that our friends ought 
to treat us well and not badly. We are angry with those 
who have usually treated us with honour or regard, if a 
5 change comes and they behave to us otherwise : for we 
think that they feel contempt for us, or they would still 
be behaving as they did before. And with those who do 
not return our kindnesses or fail to return them adequately, 
and with those who oppose us though they are our inferiors ; 
for all such persons seem to feel contempt for us ; those who 
oppose us seem to think us inferior to themselves, and those 
who do not return our kindnesses seem to think that those 
kindnesses were conferred by inferiors. And we feel 

10 particularly angry with men of no account at all, if they 
slight us. For, by our hypothesis, the anger caused by the 
slight is felt towards people who are not justified in slighting 
us, and our inferiors are not thus justified. Again, we feel 
angry with friends if they do not speak well of us or treat 
us well ; and still more, if they do the contrary ; or if they 
do not perceive our needs, which is why Plexippus is angry 

15 with Meleager in Antiphon's play^; for this want of 
perception shows that they are slighting us — we do not fail 
to perceive the needs of those for whom we care. Again, 
we are angry with those who rejoice at our misfortunes or 
simply keep cheerful in the midst of our misfortunes, since 
this shows that they either hate us or are slighting us. Also 
with those who are indifferent to the pain they give us: 

30 this is why we get angry with bringers of bad news. And 
with those who listen to stories about us or keep on looking 
at our weaknesses ; this seems like either slighting us or 
hating us ; for those who love us share in all our distresses 
and it must distress any one to keep on looking at his own 
* Antiphon, Meleager, Nauck', p, 792. 

BOOK II. 2 1379* 

weaknesses. Further, with those who slight us before five 
classes of people : namely, (i) our rivals, (2) those whom we 
admire, (3) those whom we wish to admire us, (4) those for 35 
whom we feel reverence, (5) those who feel reverence for us : 
if any one slights us before such persons, we feel particularly 
angry. Again, we feel angry with those who slight us in 
connexion with what we are as honourable men bound to 
champion — our parents, children, wives, or subjects. And 
with those who do not return a favour, since such a slight is 30 
unjustifiable. Also with those who reply with humorous 
levity when we are speaking seriously, for such behaviour 
indicates contempt. And with those who treat us less 
well than they treat everybody else ; it is another mark of 
contempt that they should think we do not deserve what 
every one else deserves. Forget fulness, too, causes anger, 
as when our own names are forgotten, trifling as this may 35 
be ; since forgetfulness is felt to be another sign that we are 
being slighted ; it is due to negligence, and to neglect us is 
to slight us. 

The persons with whom we feel anger, the frame of mind 
in which we feel it, and the reasons why we feel it, have 1380* 
now all been set forth. Clearly the orator will have to 
speak so as to bring his hearers into a frame of mind that 
will dispose them to anger, and to represent his adversaries 
as open to such charges and possessed of such qualities as 
do make people angry. 

3 Since growing calm is the opposite of growing angry, and ^ 
calmness^ the opposite of anger, we must ascertain in what 
frames of mind men are calm, towards whom they feel calm, 
and by what means they are made so. Growing calm may 
be defined as a settling down or quieting of anger. Now 
we get angry with those who slight us ; and since slighting 
is a voluntary act, it is plain that we feel calm towards 
those who do nothing of the kind, or who do or seem to do 10 
it involuntarily. Also towards those who intended to do 
the opposite of what they did do. Also towards those 
who treat themselves as they have treated us : since no one 

^ Or: gentleness, mildness, placability, patience (with the corre- 
sponding adjectives). 


can be supposed to slight himself. Also towards those 
who admit their fault and are sorry : since we accept their 
grief at what they have done as satisfaction, and cease to be 
15 angry. The punishment of sei^vants shows this : those who 
contradict us and deny their offence we punish all the more, 
but we cease to be incensed against those who agree that 
they deserved their punishment. The reason is that it is 
shameless to deny what is obvious, and those who are 
shameless towards us slight us and show contempt for 
20 us : anyhow, we do not feel shame before those of whom 
we are thoroughly contemptuous. Also we feel calm to- 
wards those who humble themselves before us and do not 
gainsay us ; we feel that they thus admit themselves our 
inferiors, and inferiors feel fear, and nobody can slight any 
one so long as he feels afraid of him. That our anger 
ceases towards those who humble themselves before us is 
25 shown even by dogs, who do not bite people when they sit 
down.^ We also feel calm towards those who are serious 
when we are serious, because then we feel that we are 
treated seriously and not contemptuously. Also towards 
those who have done us more kindnesses than we have done 
them. Also towards those who pray to us and beg for 
mercy, since they humble themselves by doing so. Also 
towards those who do not insult or mock at or slight any 
30 one at all, or not any worthy person or any one like our- 
selves. In general, the things that make us calm may be 
inferred by seeing what the opposites are of those that make 
us angry. We are not angry with people we fear or respect, 
as long as we fear or respect them ; you cannot be afraid 
of a person and also at the same time angry with him. 
Again, we feel no anger, or comparatively little, with those 
who have done what they did through anger ; we do not 
35 feel that they have done it from a wish to slight us, for no 
one slights people when angry with them, since slighting is 
1380'' painless, and anger is painful. Nor do we grow angry with 
those who reverence us. 

As to the frame of mind that makes people calm, it 
is plainly the opposite to that which makes them 

' Cp. Odyssey, xiv. 29-31. 

BOOK II. 3 1380* 

angry, as when they are amusing themselves or laughing 
or feasting ; when they are feeling prosperous or success- 
ful or satisfied ; when, in fine, they are enjoying freedom 
from pain, or inoffensive pleasure, or justifiable hope. 5 
Also when time has passed and their anger is no longer 
fresh, for time puts an end to anger. And vengeance 
previously taken on one person puts an end to even 
greater anger felt against another person. Hence Philo- 
crates, being asked by some one, at a time when the public 
was angry with him, 'Why don't you defend yourself?' 
did right to reply, ' The time is not yet.' ' Why, when is 
the time? ' ' When I see some one else calumniated.' For 10 
men become calm when they have spent their anger on 
somebody else. This happened in the case of Ergophilus : 
though the people were more irritated against him than 
against Callisthenes, they acquitted him because they had 
condemned Callisthenes to death the day before. Again, 
men become calm if they have convicted ^ the offender ; or 
if he has already suffered worse things than they in their 15 
anger would have themselves inflicted upon him ; for they 
feel as if they were already avenged. Or if they feel that 
they themselves are in the wrong and are suffering justly 
(for anger is not excited by what is just), since men no 
longer think then that they are suffering without justifica- 
tion ; and anger, as we have seen,^ means this. Hence 
we ought always to inflict a preliminary punishment in 
words : if that is done, even slaves are less aggrieved 30 
by the actual punishment. We also feel calm if we think 
that the offender will not see that he is punished on our 
account and because of the way he has treated us. For 
anger has to do with individuals. This is plain from the 
definition.^ Hence the poet has well written : 

Say that it was Odysseus, sacker of cities,^ 

implying that Odysseus would not have considered him- 
self avenged unless the Cyclops perceived both by whom 
and for what he had been blinded. Consequently we do 

* eXacrti' A"=. Or fXtioaiv (A'= corr.) ' if they pity '. 
^ ii, c. 2, init. ' Odyssey^ ix. 504. 


35 not get angry with any one who cannot be aware of our 
anger, and in particular we cease to be angry with people 
once they are dead, for we feel that the worst has been done 
to them, and that they will neither feel pain nor anything 
else that we in our anger aim at making them feel. And 
therefore the poet has well made Apollo say, in order to put 
a stop to the anger of Achilles against the dead Hector, 

For behold in his fury he doeth despite to the senseless 

30 It is now plain that when you wish to calm others you 
must draw upon these lines of argument ; you must put 
your hearers into the corresponding frame of mind, and 
represent those with whom they are angry as formidable, 
or as worthy of reverence, or as benefactors, or as involuntary 
agents, or as much distressed at what they have done. 

Let us now turn to Friendship ^ and Enmity, and ask 4 
towards whom these feelings are entertained, and why. We 
35 will begin by defining friendship and friendly feeling. We 
may describe friendly feeling towards any one as wishing for 
him what you believe to be good things, not for your own 
1381' sake but for his, and being inclined, so far as you can, to 
bring these things about. A friend is one who feels thus and 
excites these feelings in return : those who think they feel 
thus towards each other think themselves friends. This 
being assumed, it follows that your friend is the sort of man 
who shares your pleasure in what is good and your pain in 
5 what is unpleasant, for your sake and for no other reason. 
This pleasure and pain of his will be the token of his good 
wishes for you, since we all feel glad at getting what we 
wish for, and pained at getting what we do not. Those, 
then, are friends to whom the same things are good and evil ; 
and those who are, moreover, friendly or unfriendly to the 
10 same people ; for in that case they must have the same 
wishes, and thus by wishing for each other what they wish 
for themselves, they show themselves each other's friends. 

' Iliad, xxiv. 54. 

* In this chapter and elsewhere it is difficult to translate (f)i\t'iv (and 
its related words) by any single English equivalent ; ' to be a friend ', 
* to like', 'to love', may have to be used in turn. Cp. W. D. Ross, 
Aristotle, p. 230. 

BOOK 11. 4 1381* 

Again, we feel friendly to those who have treated us well, 
either ourselves or those we care for, whether on a large 
scale, or readily, or at some particular cr-isis ; provided it 
was for our own sake. And also to those who we think 
wish to treat us well. And also to our friends' friends, and 
to those who like, or are liked by, those whom we like our- 15 
selves. And also to those who are enemies to those whose 
enemies we are, and dislike, or are disliked by, those whom 
we dislike. For all such persons think the things good which 
we think good, so that they wish what is good for us ; and 
this, as we saw,^ is what friends must do. And also to those 
who are willing to treat us well where money or our personal 20 
safety is concerned : and therefore we value those who are 
liberal, brave, or just. The just we consider to be those 
who do not live on others ; which means those who work 
for their living, especially farmers and others who work with 
their own hands. We also like temperate men, because 
they are not unjust to others ; and, for the same reason, 25 
those who mind their own business. And also those whose 
friends we wish to be, if it is plain that they wish to be our 
friends : such are the morally good, and those well thought 
of by every one, by the best men, or by those whom we 
admire or who admire us. And also those with whom it is 
pleasant to live and spend our days : such are the good- 30 
tempered, and those who are not too ready to show us our 
mistakes, and those who are not cantankerous or quarrel- 
some — such people are always wanting to fight us, and those 
who fight us we feel wish for the opposite of what we wish 
for ourselves — and those who have the tact to make and 
take a joke ; here both parties have the same object in view,^ 
when they can stand being made fun of as well as do it 35 
prettily themselves. And we also feel friendly towards 
those who praise such good qualities as we possess, and 
especially if they praise the good qualities that we are not 
too sure we do possess. And towards those who are cleanly 1381* 
in their person, their dress, and all their way of life. 
And towards those who do not reproach us with what we 

' ii, c. 4, init. 

^ i. e. both wish to pass the time pleasantly. 

848-10 fl 


have done amiss to them or they have done to help us, for 
both actions show a tendency to criticize us. And towards 
6 those who do not nurse grudges or store up grievances, but 
are always ready to make friends again ; for we take it that 
they will behave to us just as we find them behaving to 
every one else. And towards those who are not evil speakers 
and who are aware of neither their neighbours' bad points 
nor our own, but of our good ones only, as a good man 
always will be. And towards those who do not try to 
thwart us when we are angry or in earnest, which would 

10 mean being ready to fight us. And towards those who have 
some serious feeling towards us, such as admiration for 
us, or belief in our goodness, or pleasure in our company ; 
especially if they feel like this about qualities in us for 
which we especially wish to be admired, esteemed, or liked. 
And towards those who are like ourselves in character and 

15 occupation, provided they do not get in our way or gain 
their living from the same source as we do — for then it will 
be a case of * potter against potter ' : 

Potter to potter and builder to builder begrudge their 

And those who desire the same things as we desire, if it is 
possible for us both to share them together ; otherwise the 
same trouble arises here too. And towards those with whom 
we are on such terms that, while we respect their opinions, 

ao we need not blush before them for doing what is con- 
ventionally wrong : as well as towards those before whom 
we should be ashamed to do anything really wrong. Again, 
our rivals, and those whom we should like to envy us — 
though without ill-feeling — either we like these people or at 
least we wish them to like us. And we feel friendly towards 
those whom we help to secure good for themselves, provided 
we are not likely to suffer heavily by it ourselves. And 

35 those who feel as friendly to us when we are not with them 

as when we are — which is why all men feel friendly towards 

those who are faithful to their dead friends. And, speaking 

generally, towards those who are really fond of their friends 

' Hesiod, Works and Days, 25 Ka\ Kfpafifvs Ktpafiu KOTtti Koi t(ktovi 


BOOK IT 4 1381*' 

and do not desert them in trouble ; of all good men, we feel 
most friendly to those who show their goodness as friends. 
Also towards those who are honest with us, including those 
who will tell us of their own weak points : it has just been 
said that with our friends we are not ashamed of what is 3° 
conventionally wrong,^ and if we do have this feeling, we do 
not love them ; if therefore we do not have it, it looks as 
if we did love them. We also like those with whom we do 
not feel frightened or uncomfortable — nobody can like a 
man of whom he feels frightened. Friendship has various 
forms — comradeship, intimacy, kinship, and so on. 

Things that cause friendship are : doing kindnesses ; doing 35 
them unasked ; and not proclaiming the fact when they are 
done, which shows that they were done for our own sake 
and not for some other reason. 

Enmity and Hatred should clearly be studied by reference 1382^ 
to their opposites. Enmity may be produced by anger or 
spite or calumny. Now whereas anger arises from offences 
against oneself, enmity may arise even without that ; we may 
hate people merely because of what we take to be their 
character. Anger is always concerned with individuals — a 
Callias or a Socrates— whereas hatred is directed also against 5 
classes : we all hate any thief and any informer. Moreover, 
anger can be cured by time ; but hatred cannot. The one 
aims at giving pain to its object, the other at doing him 
harm ; the angry man wants his victims to feel ; the hater 
does not mind whether they feel or not. All painful 
things are felt ; but the greatest evils, injustice and folly, are 10 
the least felt, since their presence causes no pain. And 
anger is accompanied by pain, hatred is not ; the angry man 
feels pain, but the hater does not. Much may happen to 
make the angry man pity those who offend him, but the 
hater under no circumstances wishes to pity a man whom he 
has once hated: for the one would have the offenders suffer 15 
for what they have done ; the other would have them cease 
to exist. 

It is plain from all this that we can prove people to be 
friends or enemies ; if they are not, we can make them out to be 

• \l%\^ 20. 
G 2 


so; if they claim to be so, we can refute their claim ; and if it is 
disputed whether an action was due to anger or to hatred, we 
can attribute it to whichever of these we prefer.^ 

To turn next to Fear, what follows will show the things 5 

30 and persons of which, and the states of mind in which, we 
feel afraid. Fear may be defined as a pain or disturbance 
due to a mental picture of some destructive or painful evil 
in the future. Of destructive or painful evils only ; for there 
are some evils, e. g. wickedness or stupidity, the prospect of 
which does not frighten us : I mean only such as amount to 
great pains or losses. And even these only if they appear 

J5 not remote but so near as to be imminent : we do not fear 
things that are ^ very long way off : for instance, we all know 
we shall die, but we are not troubled thereby, because death is 
not close at hand. From this definition it will follow that 
fear is caused by whatever we feel has great power of 
destroying us, or of harming us in' ways that tend to cause 

30 us great pain. Hence the very indications of such things 
are terrible, making us feel that the terrible thing itself is 
close at hand ; the approach of what is terrible is just what 
we mean by ' danger '. Such indications are the enmity 
and anger of people who have power to do something to us ; 
for it is plain that they have the will to do it, and so 
they are on the point of doing it. Also injustice in 

35 possession of power ; for it is the unjust man's will to do 
evil that makes him unjust. Also outraged virtue in 
1382^ possession of power ; for it is plain that, when outraged, it 
always has the will to retaliate, and now it has the power to 
do so. Also fear felt by those who have the power to do 
something to us, since such persons are sure to be ready to 
do it. And since most men tend to be bad — slaves to 

5 greed, and cowards in danger — it is, as a rule, a terrible 
thing to be at another man's mercy ; and therefore, if we 
have done anything horrible, those in the secret terrify us 
with the thought that they may betray or desert us. And 

' Reading afKpKr^TiTovvTot with A", and t(f>' Snortpap (or {(ft' onortpav 
tip).— Or: ' if they dispute (afi(pia^t]TovvTas) with us through anger or 
through hatred, we can bring them into whichever of the two we prefer 
(i. e. into greater anger or greater hatred).' 

BOOK II. 5 1382" 

those who can do us wrong are terrible to us when we are 
h'able to be wronged ; for as a rule men do wrong to others 
whenever they have the power to do it. And those who 
have been wronged, or believe themselves to be wronged, 10 
are terrible ; for they are always looking out for their 
opportunity. Also those who have done people wrong, if 
they possess power, since they stand in fear of retaliation : 
we have already ^ said that wickedness possessing power is 
terrible. Again, our rivals for a thing cause us fear when 
we cannot both have it at once ; for we are always at 
war with such men. We also fear those who are to 
be feared by stronger people than ourselves: if they can 15 
hurt those stronger people, still more can they hurt us ; 
and, for the same reason, we fear those whom those stronger 
people are actually afraid of. Also those who have 
destroyed people stronger than we are. Also those who 
are attacking people weaker than we are : either they are 
already formidable, or they will be so when they have thus 
grown stronger. Of those we have wronged, and of our 
enemies or rivals, it is not the passionate and outspoken ao 
whom we have to fear, but the quiet, dissembling, 
unscrupulous ; since we never know when they are upon 
us, we can never be sure they are at a safe distance. 
All terrible things are more terrible if they give us no chance 
of retrieving a blunder — either no chance at all, or only one 
that depends on our enemies and not ourselves. Those 
things are also worse which we cannot, or cannot easily, help. 35 
Speaking generally, anything causes us to feel fear that when 
it happens to, or threatens, others causes us to feel pity. 

The above are, roughly, the chief things that are terrible 
and are feared. Let us now describe the conditions under 
which we ourselves feel fear. If fear is associated with the 
expectation that something destructive will happen to us, 30 
plainly nobody will be afraid who believes nothing can 
happen to him ; we shall not fear things that we believe 
cannot happen to us, nor people who we believe cannot inflict 
them upon us ; nor shall we be afraid at times when we think 
ourselves safe from them. It follows therefore that fear is 

' 1382* 34. 


felt by those who believe something to be likely to happen to 

35 them, at the hands of particular persons, in a particular form, 
and at a particular time. People do not believe this when 
1383* they are, or think they are, in the midst of great prosperity, 
and are in consequence insolent, contemptuous, and reckless 
— the kind of character produced by wealth, physical 
strength, abundance of friends, power : nor yet when they 
feel they have experienced every kind of horror already and 
have grown callous about the future, like men who are being 
5 flogged and are already nearly dead — if they are to feel the 
anguish of uncertainty, there must be some faint expectation 
of escape. This appears from the fact that fear sets us 
thinking what can be done, which of course nobody does 
when things are hopeless. Consequently, when it is ad- ^ 
visable that the audience should be frightened, the orator 
must make them feel that they really are in danger of some- 
thing, pointing out that it has happened to others who 

10 were stronger than they are, and is happening, or has 
happened, to people like themselves, at the hands of 
unexpected people, in an unexpected form, and at an 
unexpected time. 

Having now seen the nature of fear, and of the things 
that cause it, and the various states of mind in which 
it is felt, we can also see what Confidence is, about what 

15 things we feel it, and under what conditions. It is the op- 
posite of fear, and w hat causes it is the opposite of what 
causes fear ; it is, therefore, the expectation associated 
with a mental picture of the nearness of what keeps us safe 
and the absence or remoteness of what is terrible : it may 
be due either to the near presence of what inspires confidence 
or to the absence of what causes alarm. We feel it if we can 

30 take steps — many, or important, or both — to cure or prevent 
trouble ; if we have neither wronged others nor been wronged 
by them ; if we have either no rivals at all or no strong 
ones ; if our rivals who are strong are our friends or have 
treated us well or been treated well by us ; or if those 
whose interest is the same as ours are the more numerous 
party, or the stronger, or both. 

35 As for our own state of mind, we feel confidence if we 

BOOK II. 5 1383* 

believe we have often succeeded and never suffered reverses, 
or have often met danger and escaped it safely. For there 
are two reasons why human beings face danger calmly : 
they may have no experience of it, or they may have means 
to deal with it : thus when in danger at sea people may feel 30 
confident about what will happen either because they have 
no experience of bad weather, or because their experience 
gives them the means of dealing with it. We also feel 
confident whenever there is nothing to terrify other people 
like ourselves, or people weaker than ourselves, or people than 
whom we believe ourselves to be stronger — and we believe 
this if we have conquered them, or conquered others who 
are as strong as they are, or stronger. Also if we believe 35 
ourselves superior to our rivals in the number and importance 
of the advantages that make men formidable — wealth, 1383^^ 
physical strength, strong bodies of supporters, extensive 
territory, and the possession of all, or the most important, 
appliances of war. Also if we have wronged no one, or not 
many, or not those of whom we are afraid ; and generally, if 
our relations with the gods are satisfactory, as will be shown 5 
especially by signs and oracles. The fact is that anger makes 
us confident — that anger is excited by our knowledge that 
we are not the wrongers but the wronged, and that the divine 
power is always supposed to be on the side of the wronged.^ 
Also when, at the outset of an enterprise, we believe that 
we cannot and shall not fail, or that we shall succeed 10 
completely. — So much for the causes of fear and confidence. 

6 We now turn to Shame and Shamelessness ; what follows 
will explain the things that cause these feelings, and the 
persons before whom, and the states of mind under which, 
they are felt. Shame may be defined as pain or disturbance 
in regard to bad things, whether present, past, or future, 15 
which seem likely to involve us in discredit ; and shameless- 
ness as contempt or indifference in regard to these same bad 
things. If this definition be granted, it follows that we feel 

* The connexion of thought, as indicated by the ydp after QappaKiov, 
will be clearer if a colon (rather than a full stop) is placed after 
(})oliowTai. The argument runs : the fact that we have the divine favour 
shows us that we have been wronged ; that makes us angry ; and anger 
makes us confident. 


shame at such bad things as we think are disgraceful to our- 
selves or to those we care for. These evils are, in the first 

20 place, those due to moral badness. Such are throwing away 
one's shield or taking to flight ; for these bad things are due to 
cowardice. Also, withholding a deposit or otherwise wrong- 
ing people about money ; for these acts are due to injustice. 
Also, having carnal intercourse with forbidden persons, 
at wrong times, or in wrong places ; for these things are due 
to licentiousness. Also, making profit in petty or disgraceful 
ways, or out of helpless persons, e. g. the poor, or the dead — 

35 whence the proverb ' He would pick a corpse's pocket ' ; 
for all this is due to low greed and meanness. Also, in 
money matters, giving less help than you might, or none at 
all, or accepting help from those worse off than yourself; so 
also borrowing when it will seem like begging ; begging when 
it will seem like asking the return of a favour ; asking such a 
return when it will seem like begging ; praising a man in order 

30 that it may seem like begging ; and going on begging in spite 
of failure : all such actions are tokens of meanness. Also, 
praising people to their face,^ and praising extravagantly a 
man's good points and glozing over his weaknesses, and 
showing extravagant sympathy with his grief when you are 

35 in his presence, and all that sort of thing ; all this shows the 
disposition of a flatterer. Also, refusing to endure hardships 
1384* that are endured by people who are older, more delicately 
brought up, of higher rank, or generally less capable of 
endurance than ourselves : for all this shows efifeminacy. 
Also, accepting benefits, especially accepting them often, from 
another man, and then abusing him for conferring them : all 
this shows a mean, ignoble disposition. Also, talking 
5 incessantly about yourself, making loud professions, and 
appropriating the merits of others ; for this is due to boast- 
fulness. The same is true of the actions due to any of the 
other forms of badness of moral character, of the tokens of 
such badness, &c. : they are all disgraceful and shameless. 
Another sort of bad thing at which we feel shame is, lacking 
a share in the honourable things shared by every one else, 

10 or by all or nearly all who are like ourselves. By ' those 
^ With KuXa«iur, the meaning may be : ' (which is a sign) of flattery.' 

BOOK II. 6 I384» 

like ourselves ' I mean those of our own race or country or 
age or family, and generally those who are on our own level. 
Once we are on a level with others, it is a disgrace to be, 
say, less well educated than they are ; and so with other 
advantages : all the more so, in each case, if it is seen to be 
our own fault : wherever we are ourselves to blame for our 15 
present, past, or future circumstances, it follows at once that 
this is to a greater extent due to our moral badness. We 
are moreover ashamed of having done to us, having had 
done, or being about to have done to us acts that involve us 
in dishonour and reproach ; as when we surrender our 
persons, or lend ourselves to vile deeds, e. g. when we submit 
to outrage. And acts of yielding to the lust of others are 
shameful whether willing or unwilling (yielding to force 20 
being an instance of unwillingness), since unresisting submis- 
sion to them is due to un manliness or cowardice. 

These things, and others like them, are what cause the 
feeling of shame. Now since shame is a mental picture of 
disgrace, in which we shrink from the disgrace itself and 
not from its consequences, and we only care what opinion 25 
is held of us because of the people who form that opinion, 
it follows that the people before whom we feel shame 
are those whose opinion of us matters to us. Such 
persons are : those who admire us, those whom we admire, 
those by whom we wish to be admired, those with whom 
we are competing, and those whose opinion of us we 
respect. We admire those, and wish those to admire 
us, who possess any good thing that is highly esteemed ; 30 
or from whom we are very anxious to get something 
that they are able to give us — as a lover feels. We 
compete with our equals. We respect, as true, the views 
of sensible people, such as our elders and those who have 
been well educated. And we feel more shame about a 
thing if it is done openly, before all men's eyes. Hence the 
proverb, ' shame dwells in the eyes '.^ For this reason we 
feel most shame before those who will always be with us 
and those who notice what we do, since in both cases eyes 

^ Cp. Euripides, Cresphontes^ fragm. 457, N.^ ai'^ii>i iv 6(}>da\noi<Ti 
yiyvfrai, riKvuv, 

1384'' RHETORIC A 

1384'' are upon us. We also feel it before those not open to the 
same imputation as ourselves : for it is plain that their 
opinions about it are the opposite of ours. Also before 
those who are hard on any one whose conduct they think 
wrong ; for what a man does himself, he is said not to resent 
when his neighbours do it : so that of course he does resent 
5 their doing what he does not do himself. And before those 
who are likely to tell everybody about you ; not telling 
others is as good as not believing you wrong. People are 
likely to tell others about you if you have wronged them, 
since they are on the look out to harm you ; or if they 
speak evil of everybody, for those who attack the innocent 
will be still more ready to attack the guilty. And before 
those whose main occupation is with their neighbours' 

10 failings — people like satirists and writers of comedy ; these 
are really a kind of evil-speakers and tell-tales. And before 
those who have never yet known us come to grief, since 
their attitude to us has amounted to admiration so far : that 
is why we feel ashamed to refuse those a favour who ask 
one for the first time — we have not as yet lost credit with 
them. Such are those who are just beginning to wish to be 

15 our friends ; for they have seen our best side only (hence the 
appropriateness of Euripides'^ reply to the Syracusans) : 
and such also are those among our old acquaintances who 
know nothing to our discredit. And we are ashamed not 
merely of the actual shameful conduct mentioned, but also 
of the evidences of it : not merely, for example, of actual 
sexual intercourse, but also of its evidences ; and not merely 

ao of disgraceful acts but also of disgraceful talk. Similarly 
we feel shame not merely in presence of the persons 
mentioned but also of those who will tell them what we 
have done, such as their servants or friends. And, 
generally, we feel no shame before those upon whose 

* The scholiast (ed. Rabe, p. 106) tells us that Euripides was sent 
to negotiate peace with the Syracusans, and finding them unwilling 
said : * You ought, men of Syracuse, to respect our expressions of 
esteem if only because we are new petitioners.' The Euripides in 
question may well have been the tragic poet : the popularity of whose 
poems at Syracuse, and whose turn for rhetorical argument, are 
beyond dispute. Cp. Baiter-Sauppe, Or. AtL, Ft. ii, p. 216. 

BOOK II. 6 1384" 

opinions we quite look down as untrustworthy (no one feels 
shame before small children or animals) ; nor are we 
ashamed of the same things before intimates as before 25 
strangers, but before the former of what seem genuine 
faults, before the latter of what seem conventional ones. 

The conditions under which we shall feel shame are 
these : first, having people related to us like those before 
whom, as has been said,^ we feel shame. These are, as 
was stated, persons whom we admire, or who admire us, 
or by whom we wish to be admired, or from whom we 30 
desire some service that we shall not obtain if we forfeit 
their good opinion. These persons may be actually looking 
on (as Cydias represented them in his speech on land 
assignments in Samos,^ when he told the Athenians to 
imagine the Greeks to be standing all around them, actually 
seeing the way they voted and not merely going to hear 
about it afterwards) : or again they may be near at hand, 35 
or may be likely to find out about what we do. This is 
why in misfortune we do not wish to be seen by those who 
once wished themselves like us ; for such a feeling implies 
admiration. And men feel shame when they have acts or 
exploits to their credit on which they are bringing dishonour, 1385^ 
whether these are their own, or those of their ancestors, 
or those of other persons with whom they have some 
close connexion. Generally, we feel shame before those 
for whose own misconduct we should also feel it — 
those already mentioned; those who take us as their 
models ; those whose teachers or advisers we have been ; 5 
or other people, it may be, like ourselves, whose rivals 
we are.' For there are many things that shame before 
such people makes us do or leave undone. And we feel 
more shame when we are likely to be continually seen by, 
and go about under the eyes of, those who know of our 
disgrace. Hence, when Antiphon the poet was to be 
cudgelled to death by order of Dionysius, and saw those 10 
who were to perish with him covering their faces as they 

' 1384^27. 

^ Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Att., Pt. ii, p. 318. 

* Or, ' who resemble, it may be, those whose rivals we are." 


went through the gates, he said, • Why do you cover your 
faces ? Is it lest some of these spectators should see you 
to-morrow ? ' 

So much for Shame ; to understand Shamelessness, we 
15 need only consider the converse cases, and plainly we shall 
have all we need. 

To take Kindness next : the definition of it will show 7 
us towards whom it is felt, why,^ and in what frames 
of mind. Kindness — under the influence of which a man 
is said to 'be kind' — may be defined as helpfulness 
towards some one in need, not in return for anything, nor 
for the advantage of the helper himself, but for that of the 

30 person helped. Kindness is great if shown to one who is 
in great need, or who needs what is important and hard 
to get, or who needs it at an important and difficult crisis ; 
or if the helper is the only, the first, or the chief person 
to give the help.^ Natural cravings constitute such needs ; 
and in particular cravings, accompanied by pain, for what 
is not being attained. The appetites are cravings of this 
kind : sexual desire, for instance, and those which arise 

35 during bodily injuries and in dangers ; for appetite is active 
both in danger and in pain. Hence those who stand by us 
in poverty or in banishment, even if they do not help us 
much, are yet really kind to us, because our need is great and 
the occasion pressing ; for instance, the man who gave the 
mat in the Lyceum.^ The helpfulness must therefore meet, 
preferably, just this^ kind of need ; and failing just this kind, 
some other kind as great or greater. We now see to 

30 whom, why, and under what conditions kindness is shown ; 
and these facts must form the basis of our arguments. 
We must show that the persons helped are, or have been, in 
such pain and need as has been described, and that their 
helpers gave, or are giving, the kind of help described, 

35 in the kind of need described. We can also see how to 

^ Perhaps tiv ^ should be read, as giving an easier construction for 
\i6voi KxK. 

' Particulars unknown. Can some friend in need have provided a 
mat for a poor and fainting follower of the unwearied peripatetic 
Aristotle to rest upon ? If so, the illustration is semi-humorous 

' Retaining tuOtu, A°. 

BOOK II 7 1385* 

eliminate the idea of kindness and make our opponents 
appear unkind : we may maintain that they are being or IsSs** 
have been helpful simply to promote their own interest — 
this, as has been stated,^ is not kindness : or that their 
action was accidental, or was forced upon them ; or that 
they were not doing a favour, but merely returning one, 
whether they know this or not — in either case the action is 
a mere return, and is therefore not a kindness even if the 
doer does noi know how the case stands. In considering 
this subject we must look at all the ' categories ' : ^ an act may 5 
be an act of kindness because (i) it is a particular thing, 
(2) it has a particular magnitude or (3) quality, or (4) is 
done at a particular time or (5) place. As evidence of the 
want of kindness, we may^oint out that a smaller service 
had been refused to the man in need ; or that the same 
service, or an equal or greater one, has been given to his 
enemies ; these facts show that the service in question 
was not done for the sake of the person helped. Or we 
may point out that the thing desired was worthless and 
that the helper knew it : no one will admit that he is in need 10 
of what is worthless. 

8 So much for Kindness and Unkindness. Let us now 
consider Pity, asking ourselves what things excite pity, and 
for what persons, and in what states of our mind pity is felt. 
Pity may be defined as a feeling of pain caused by the sight 
of some evil, destructive or painful, which befalls one 
who does not deserve it, and which we might expect 
to befall ourselves or some friend of ours, and moreover to 15 
befall us soon. In order to feel pity, we must obviously be 
capable of supposing that some evil may happen to us or 
some friend of ours, and moreover some such evil as is 
stated in our definition or is more or less of that kind. It 
is therefore not felt by those completely ruined, who 
suppose that no further evil can befall them, since the worst ao 
has befallen them already ; nor by those who imagine 
themselves immensely fortunate — their feeling is rather 
presumptuous insolence, for when they think they possess 
all the good things of life, it is clear that the impossibility 
1 1385* 18. ' Cp. Ca/e^. 1" 25 ff. 


of evil befalling them will be included, this being one of the 
good things in question. Those who think evil may befall 

35 them are such as have already had it befall them and have 
safely escaped from it ; elderly men, owing to their good 
sense and their experience; weak men, especially men 
inclined to cowardice ; and also educated people, since these 
can take long views. Also those who have parents living, 
or children, or wives ; for these are our own, and the evils 
mentioned above may easily befall them. And those who 

30 are neither moved by any courageous emotion such as 
anger or confidence (these emotions take no account of 
the future), nor by a disposition to presumptuous insolence 
(insolent men, too, take no account of the possibility that 
something evil will happen to them), nor yet by great fear 
(panic-stricken people do not feel pity, because they are 
taken up with what is happening to themselves) ; only 
those feel pity who are between these two extremes. In 

35 order to feel pity we must also believe in the goodness of 
at least some people ; if you think nobody good, you will 
1386^ believe that everybody deserves evil fortune. And, generally, 
we feel pity whenever we are in the condition of remem- 
bering that similar misfortunes have happened to us or ours, 
or expecting them to happen in future. 

So much for the mental conditions under which we feel 
pity. What we pity is stated clearly in the definition. All 
unpleasant and painful things excite pity if they tend to 
5 destroy and annihilate ; and all such evils as are due to 
chance, if they are serious. The painful and destructive 
evils are : death in its various forms, bodily injuries and 
afflictions, old age, diseases, lack of food. The evils due to 
chance are : friend lessness, scarcity of friends (it is a 

10 pitiful thing to be torn away from friends and companions), 
deformity, weakness, mutilation ; evil coming from a source 
from which good ought to have come; and the frequent 
repetition of such misfortunes. Also the coming of good 
when the worst has happened : e. g. the arrival of the Great 
King's gifts for Diopeithes after his death. Also that 

15 either no good should have befallen a man at all, or that 
he should not be able to enjoy it when it has. 

BOOK II. 8 1386" 

The ground?, then, on which we feel pity are these or 
like these. The people we pity are: those whom we 
know, if only they are not very closely related to us — 
in that case we feel about them as if we were in danger 
ourselves. For this reason Amasis did not weep, they say, at 
the sight of his son being led to death, but did weep when 20 
he saw his friend begging : ^ the latter sight was pitiful, the 
former terrible, and the terrible is different from the pitiful ; 
it tends to cast out pity, and often helps to produce the 
opposite of pity. Again, we feel pity when the danger is 
near ourselves.^ Also we pity those who are like us in age, 
character, disposition, social standing, or birth ; for in all 35 
these cases it appears more likely that the same misfortune 
may befall us also. Here too we have to remember the 
general principle that what we fear for ourselves excites 
our pity when it happens to others.^ Further, since it is when 
the sufferings of others are close to us that they excite our pity 
(we cannot remember what disasters happened a hundred 
centuries ago, nor look forward to what will happen a 
hundred centuries hereafter, and therefore feel little pity, if 30 
any, for such things) : it follows that those who heighten 
the effect of their words with suitable gestures, tones, dress, 
and dramatic action generally, are especially successful in 
exciting pity : they thus put the disasters before our eyes, 
and make them seem close to us, just coming or just past. 
Anything that has just happened, or is going to happen 1386'' 
soon, is particularly piteous : so too therefore are the tokens 
and the actions of sufferers — the garments and the like 
of those who have already suffered ; the words and the like 
of those actually suffering — of those, for instance, who are 
on the point of death. Most piteous of all is it when, in 
such times of trial, the victims are persons of noble 5 
character: whenever they are so, our pity is especially 
excited, because their innocence, as well as the setting of 
their misfortunes before our eyes, makes their misfortunes 
seem close to ourselves. 

' Cp. Herod, iii. 14. 

" Or, inserting ov yap with Vahlen : ' For our feeling is no longer 
pity [but terror] when the danger is near ourselves.' 
* Cp. 1382'' 26,27. 


Most directly opposed to pity is the feeling called 

lo Indignation. Pain at unmerited good fortune is, in one 
sense, opposite to pain at unmerited bad fortune, and is due 
to the same moral qualities. Both feelings are associated 
with good moral character ; it is our duty both to feel 
sympathy and pity for unmerited distress, and to feel 

15 indignation at unmerited prosperity; for whatever is 
undeserved is unjust, and that is why we ascribe indigna- 
tion even to the gods. It might indeed be thought that 
envy is similarly opposed to pity, on the ground that envy 
is closely akin to indignation, or even the same thing. 
But it is not the same. It is true that it also is a disturbing 
pain excited by the prosperity of others. But it is excited 
not by the prosperity of the undeserving but by that of 

20 people who are like us or equal with us. The two feelings 
have this in common, that they must be due not to some 
untoward thing being likely to befall ourselves, but only to 
what is happening to our neighbour. The feeling ceases to 
be envy in the one case and indignation in the other, 
and becomes fear, if the pain and disturbance are due to 
the prospect of something bad for ourselves as the result of 
the other man's good fortune. The feelings of pity and 

25 indignation will obviously be attended by the converse 
feelings of satisfaction. If you are pained by the unmerited 
distress of others, you will be pleased, or at least not pained, 
by their merited distress. Thus no good man can be 
pained by the punishment of parricides or murderers. 
These are things we are bound to rejoice at, as we must at 

30 the prosperity of the deserving ; both these things are just, 
and both give pleasure to any honest man, since he cannot 
help expecting that what has happened to a man like him 
will happen to him too. All these feelings are associated 
with the same type of moral character. And their 
contraries are associated with the contrary type ; the man 
who is delighted by others' misfortunes is identical with 
1387* the man who envies others' prosperity. For any one who is 
pained by the occurrence or existence of a given thing 
must be pleased by that thing's non-existence or destruction. 
We can now see that all these feelings tend to prevent pity 

BOOK II. 9 1387= 

(though they differ among themselves, for the reasons 

given), so that all are equally useful for neutralizing an 5 

appeal to pity. 

We will first consider Indignation — reserving the other 

emotions for subsequent discussion — and ask vi'ith whom, 

on what grounds, and in what states of mind we may be 

indignant. These questions are really answered by what 

has been said already. Indignation is pain caused by the 

sight of undeserved good fortune. It is, then, plain to 

begin with that there are some forms of good the sight 10 

of which cannot cause it. Thus a man may be just or 

brave, or acquire moral goodness : but we shall not be 

indignant with him for that reason, any more than we shall 

pity him for the contrary reason. Indignation is roused by 

the sight of wealth, power, and the like — by all those 

things, roughly speaking, which are deserved by good men 

and by those who possess the goods of nature — noble birth, ifi 

beauty, and so on. Again, what is long established seems 

akin to what exists by nature ; and therefore we feel more 

indignation at those possessing a given good if they have as 

a matter of fact only just got it and the prosperity it brings 

with it. The newly rich give more offence than those 

whose wealth is of long standing and inherited. The same 

is true of those who have office or power, plenty of friends, a 20 

fine family, &c. We feel the same when these advantages 

of theirs secure them others. For here again, the newly rich 

give us more offence by obtaining office through their riches 

than do those whose wealth is of long standing ; and so 

in all other cases. The reason is that what the latter have 

is felt to be really their own, but what the others have is 15 

not : what appears to have been always what it is is regarded 

as real, and so the possessions of the newly rich ^ do not seem 

to be really their own. Further, it is not any and every man 

that deserves any given kind of good ; there is a certain 

correspondence and appropriateness in such things ; thus 

it is appropriate for brave men, not for just men, to have 

fine weapons, and for men of family, not for parvenus, to 3° 

make distinguished marriages.^ Indignation may therefore 

' 01 fTfpoi : the new men, the outsiders. ^ Insert colon after tiryfWo-jv. 
64B 10 n 


properly be felt when any one gets what is not appropriate 
for him, though he may be a good man enough. It may 
also be felt when any one sets himself up against his 
superior, especially against his superior in some particular 
respect — whence the lines 

Only from battle he shrank with Aias Telamon's son ; 
Zeus had been angered with him, had he fought with 
a mightier one;^ 

1387^ but also, even apart from that, when the inferior in any 
sense contends with his superior ; a musician, for instance, 
with a just man, for justice is a finer thing than music. 

Enough has been said to make clear the grounds on which, 
and the persons against whom, Indignation is felt — they 
are those mentioned, and others like them. As for the 
people who feel it ; we feel it if we do ourselves deserve 
5 the greatest possible goods and moreover have them, for it 
is an injustice that those who are not our equals should have 
been held to deserve as much as we have. Or, secondly, 
we feel it if we are really good and honest people ; our 
j\idgement is then sound, and we loathe any kind of in- 
justice. Also if we are ambitious and eager to gain 

10 particular ends, especially if we are ambitious for what 
others are getting without deserving to get it. And, 
generally, if we think that we ourselves deserve a thing 
and that others do not, we are disposed to be indignant 
with those others so far as that thing is concerned. Hence 
servile, worthless, unambitious persons are not inclined to 
Indignation, since there is nothing they can believe them- 
selves to deserve. 

From all this it is plain what sort of men those are at 

15 whose misfortunes, distresses, or failures we ought to feel 
pleased, or at least not pained : by considering the facts 
described we see at once what their contraries are. If 
therefore our speech puts the judges in such a frame of 
mind as that indicated and shows that those who claim 
pity on certain definite grounds do not deserve to secure 

' Iliad, xi. 542. The second line is not found in the existing manu- 
scripts of the Iliad. 

BOOK II. 9 1387" 

pity but do deserve not to secure it, it will be impossible 20 
for the judges to feel pity. 

10 To take Envy next : we can see on what grounds, against 
what persons, and in what states of mind we feel it. Envy 
is pain at the sight of such good fortune as consists of the 
good things already mentioned ; we feel it towards our 
equals ; not with the idea of getting something for our- 
selves, but because the other people have it. We shall feel 
it if we have, or think we have, equals ; and by ' equals' 25 
I mean equals in birth, relationship, age, disposition, 
distinction, or wealth. We feel envy also if we fall but 
a little short of having ever>i:hing ; which is why people 
in high place and prosperity feel it — they think every one 
else is taking what belongs to themselves. Also if we are 
exceptionally distinguished for some particular thing, and 
especially if that thing is wisdom or good fortune. 30 
Ambitious men are more envious than those who are not. 
So also those who profess wisdom ; they are ambitious — to 
be thought wise. Indeed, generally, those who aim at a 
reputation for anything are envious on this particular point. 
And small-minded men are envious, for everything seems 
great to them. The good things which excite envy have 
already been mentioned. The deeds or possessions which 1388^ 
arouse the love of reputation and honour and the desire for 
fame, and the various gifts of fortune, are almost all subject 
to envy ; and particularly if we desire the thing ourselves, or 
think we are entitled to it, or if having it puts us a little 
above others, or not having it a little below them. It is 
clear also what kind of people we envy ; that was included 5 
in what has been said already : ■ we envy those who are near 
us in time, place, age, or reputation.^ Hence the line : 

Ay, kin can even be jealous of their kin.^ 

Also our fellow-competitors, who are indeed the people just 
mentioned— we do not compete with men who lived 
a hundred centuries ago, or those not yet born, or the 
dead, or those who dwell near the Pillars of Hercules,^ or 10 

• Not inserting Ka\ yevd. ' Aeschylus, fragm. 305, N.* 

' i.e. those who dwell at the farthest limits of the western world. 

11 2 


those whom, in our opinion or that of others, we take to be 

far below us or far above us. So too we compete with 

those who follow the same ends as ourselves : ^ve compete 

with our rivals in sport or in love, and generally with those 

who are after the same things ; and it is therefore these 

15 whom we are bound to envy beyond all others. Hence 

the saying : 

Potter against potter.^ 

We also envy those whose possession of or success in a 
thing is a reproach to us : these are our neighbours and 
equals ; for it is clear that it is our own fault we have 
missed the good thing in question ; this annoys us, and 

20 excites envy in us. We also envy those who have what we 
ought to have, or have got what we did have once. Hence 
old men envy younger men, and those who have spent much 
envy those who have spent little on the same thing. And 
men who have not got a thing, or not got it yet, envy those 
who have got it quickly. We can also see whal things and 
what persons give pleasure to envious people, and in what 
states of mind they feel it : the states of mind in which they 

23 feel pain are those under which they will feel pleasure in 
the contrary things. If therefore we ourselves with whom 
the decision rests are put into an envious state of mind, 
and those for whom our pity, or the award of something 
desirable, is claimed are such as have been described, it is 
obvious that they will win no pity from us. 

We will next consider Emulation, showing in what II 
follows its causes and objects, and the state of mind in 

j^o which it is felt. Emulation is pain caused by seeing the 
presence, in persons whose nature is like our own, of good 
things that are highly^ valued and are possible for ourselves 
to acquire ; but it is felt not because others have these 
goods, but because we have not got them ourselves. It 
is therefore a good feeling felt by good persons, whereas 
envy is a bad feeling felt by bad persons. Emulation 

35 makes us take steps to secure the good things in question, 
envy makes us take steps to stop our neighbour having 

* Hesiod, Works and Days, 25. Cp. ii, c. 4, 1381^ 17 above. 

BOOK II. II 1388* 

them. Emulation must therefore tend to be felt by persons 
who believe themselves to deserve certain good things that 
they have not got, it being understood that no one aspires I388'' 
to things which appear impossible.^ It is accordingly felt 
by the young and by persons of lofty disposition. Also by 
those who possess such good things as are deserved by 
men held in honour — these are^ wealth, abundance of 
friends, public office, and the like ; on the assumption that 5 
they ought to be good men, they are emulous to gain such 
goods because- they ought, in their belief, to belong to men 
whose state of mind is good. Also by those whom all others 
think deserving. We also feel it about anything for which 
our ancestors, relatives, personal friends, race, or country are 
specially honoured, looking upon that thing as really our own, 
and therefore feeling that we deserve to have it. Further, 
since all good things that are highly honoured are objects of 10 
emulation, moral goodness in its various forms must be such 
an object, and also all those good things that are useful and 
serviceable to others : for men honour those who are 
morally good, and also those who do them service. So with 
those good things our possession of which can give enjoyment 
to our neighbours — wealth and beauty rather than health. 
We can see, too, what persons are the objects of the feeling. 15 
They are those who have these and similar things— those 
already mentioned, as courage, wisdom, public office.^ 
Holders of public office — generals, orators,* and all who 
possess such powers — can do many people a good turn. 
Also those whom many people wish to be like ; those who 
have many acquaintances or friends; those whom many 
admire, or whom we ourselves admire ; and those who have 20 
been praised and eulogized by poets or prose-writers.^ 
Persons of the contrary sort are objects of contempt : for 
the feeling and notion of contempt are opposite to those 
of emulation. Those who are such as to emulate or 

^ The sense required seems to be : '. . . good things that they have 
not t;ot, provided they are possible— no one claims what appears 
impossible to get.' 

* Retaining ydp, videlicet. ' Cp. 1388^' 5 and i, c. 6. 

* pifTopfi : i. e. public speakers, advocates, politicians, statesmen. 
' Or, ' speech-writers ' ; or ' chroniclers '. 


be emulated by others are inevitably disposed to be 
25 contemptuous of all such persons as are subject to those 
bad things which are contrary to the good things that are 
the objects of emulation : despising them for just that 
reason. Hence we often despise the fortunate, when luck 
comes to them without their having those good things which 
are held in honour. 

This completes our discussion of the means by which the 
several emotions may be produced or dissipated, and 
30 upon which depend the persuasive arguments connected 
with the emotions. 

Let us now consider the various types of human 12 
character, in relation to the emotions and moral qualities, 
showing how they correspond to our various ages and 
fortunes. By emotions I mean anger, desire, and the like ; 
these we have discussed already.^ By moral qualities I 
mean virtues and vices ; these also have been discussed 
already,^ as well as the various things that various types of 
men tend to will and to do.^ By ages I mean youth, 
3? the prime of life, and old age. By fortune I mean birth, 
1389*^ wealth; power, and their opposites — in fact, good fortune 
and ill fortune. 

To begin with the Youthful type of character. Young 
men have strong passions, and tend to gratify them 
indiscriminately. Of the bodily desires, it is the sexual by 
5 which they are most swayed and in which they show absence 
of self-control. They are changeable and fickle in their 
desires, which are violent while they last, but quickly over : 
their impulses are keen but not deep-rooted, and are like 
sick people's attacks of hunger and thirst. They are hot- 
tempered and quick-tempered, and apt to give way to 
JO their anger; bad temper often gets the better of them, for 
owing to their love of honour they cannot bear being 
slighted, and are indignant if they imagine themselves 
unfairly treated. While they love honour, they love victory 
still more ; for youth is eager for superiority over others, 
and victory is one form of this. They love both more than 

' ii, cc. iff. '^ i, c. 9. ' i, c. 6, 1363'' 19. 

BOOK II. 12 1389* 

they love money, which indeed they love very little, not 
having yet learnt what it means to be without it — this is 15 
the point of Pittacus' remark about Amphiaraus.^ They 
look at the good side rather than the bad, not having yet 
witnessed many instances of wickedness. They trust others 
readily, because they have not yet often been cheated. 
They are sanguine ; nature warms their blood as though 
with excess of wine ; and besides that, they have as yet 
met with few disappointments. Their lives are mainly 20 
spent not in memory but in expectation ; for expectation 
refers to the future, memory to the past, and youth has a 
long future before it and a short past behind it : on the 
first day ^ of one's life one has nothing at all to remember, 
and can only look forward. They are easily cheated, 
owing to the sanguine disposition just mentioned. Their ^5 
hot tempers and hopeful dispositions make them more 
courageous than older men are; the hot temper prevents 
fear, and the hopeful disposition creates confidence ; we 
cannot feel fear so long as we are feeling angry, and 
any expectation of good makes us confident. They 
are shy, accepting the rules of society in which they 
have been trained, and not yet believing in any other 30 
standard of honour. They have exalted notions, because 
they have not yet been humbled by life or learnt its 
necessary limitations ; moreover, their hopeful disposition 
makes them think themselves equal to great things— and 
that means having exalted notions. They would always 
rather do noble deeds than useful ones : their lives are 
regulated more by moral feeling than by reasoning; and 
whereas reasoning leads us to choose what is useful, moral 
goodness leads us to choose what is noble. They are 35 
fonder of their friends, intimates,' aiid companions than 
older men are, because they like spending their days in the 1389^ 
company of others, and have not yet come to value either 
their friends or anything else by their usefulness to them- 
selves. All their mistakes are in the direction of doing 

^ The remark is unknown. 

^ Not to be taken quite literally : cp. enl t>'i TiX(vraia nfifpj, 1389'^ 34« 

^ Kai 0iXoiK€iot, with Vahlen. 


things excessively and vehemently. They disobey Chilon's 
precept ^ by overdoing everything ; they love too much 
5 and hate too much, and the same with everything else. 
They think they know everything, and are always^ quite 
sure about it ; this, in fact, is why they overdo everything. 
If they do wrong to others, it is because they mean to 
insult them, not to do them actual harm. They are ready 
to pity others, because they think every one an honest man, 
or anyhow better than he is: they judge their neighbour by 
their own harmless natures, and so cannot think he deserves 
10 to be treated in that way. They are fond of fun and there- 
fore witty, wit being well-bred insolence. 

Such, then, is the character of the Young. The character 13 
of Elderly Men — men who are past their prime — may be 
said to be formed for the most part of elements that are 
the contrary of all these. They have lived many years ; 

15 they have often been taken in, and often made mistakes ; 
and life on the whole is a bad business. The result is that 
they are sure about nothing and under -do everything. They 
* think ', but they never ' know ' ; and because of their hesita- 
tion they always add a 'possibly' or a 'perhaps', putting 
everything this way and nothing positively. They are 

20 cynical ; ^ that is, they tend to put the worse construction on 
everything. Further, their experience makes them distrustful 
and therefore suspicious of evil. Consequently they neither 
love warmly nor hate bitterly, but following the hint of Bias 
they love as though they will some day hate and hate as 
though they will some day love.^ They are small-minded, 

25 because they have been humbled by life : their desires are 
set upon nothing more exalted or unusual than what will 
help them to keep alive. They are not generous, because 
money is one of the things they must have, and at the same 
time their experience has taught them how hard it is to get 
and how easy to lose. They are cowardly, and are always 

* ^r\hiv (lyav : tie quid nimis, * (do) nothing in excess ', * don't overdo 
anything '. 

* Taking up 1389* 17, which may be translated ' they are not cynical 
but charitable '. 

* Or, ' they treat their friends as probable future enemies and their 
enemies as probable future friends ' ; cp. note on 1380^ 34. 

BOOK II. 13 1389* 

anticipating danger ; unlike that of the young, who are 30 
warm-blooded, their temperament is chilly; old age has 
paved the way for cowardice ; fear is, in fact, a form of chill. 
They love life ; and all the more when their last day has 
come, because the object of all desire is something we have 
not got, and also because we desire most strongly that 
which we need most urgently. They are too fond of them- 35 
selves ; this is one form that small-mindedness takes. 
Because of this, they guide their lives too much by 
considerations of what is useful and too little by what is 
noble — for the useful is what is good for oneself, and the 1390^ 
noble what is good absolutely. They are not shy, but 
shameless rather; caring less for what is noble than for 
what is useful, they feel contempt for what people may 
think of them. They lack confidence in the future ; partly 
through experience — for most things go wrong, or anyhow 
turn out worse than one expects; and partly because of 5 
their cowardice. They live by memory rather than by hope ; 
for what is left to them of life is but little as compared with 
the long past ; and hope is of the future, memory of the 
past. This, again, is the cause of their loquacity; they are 
continually talking of the past, because they enjoy 10 
remembering it. Their fits of anger are sudden but feeble. 
Their sensual passions have either altogether gone or have 
lost their vigour : consequently they do not feel their 
passions much, and their actions are inspired less by what 
they do feel than by the love of gain. Hence men at this 
time of life are often supposed to have a self-controlled 
character ; the fact is that their passions have slackened, 15 
and they are slaves to the love of gain. They guide their 
lives by reasoning more than by moral feeling ; reasoning 
being directed to utility and moral feeling to moral goodness. 
If they wrong others, they mean to injure them, not to 
insult them. Old men may feel pity, as well as young men, 
but not for the same reason. Young men feel it out of 
kindness ; old men out of weakness, imagining that any- 20 
thing that befalls any one else might easily happen to them, 
which, as we saw,^ is a thought that excites pity. Hence 

' ii, c. 8, 1386*24 and 29. 


they are querulous, and not disposed to jesting or laughter 
— the love of laughter being the very opposite of queru- 

Such are the characters of Young Men and Elderly. Men. 
25 People always think well of speeches adapted to, and 
reflecting, their own character : and we can now see how to 
compose our speeches so as to adapt both them and our- 
selves to our audiences. 

As for Men in their Prime, clearly we shall find that they 14 
have a character between that of the young and that of the 

30 old, free from the extremes of either. They have neither 
that excess of confidence which amounts to rashness, nor too 
much timidity, but the right amount of each. They neither 
trust everybody nor distrust everybody, but judge people 
correctly. Their lives will be guided not by the sole 
1390 consideration either of what is noble or of what is useful, 
but by both ; neither by parsimony nor by prodigality, but 
by what is fit and proper. So, too, in regard to anger and 
desire ; they will be brave as well as temperate, and 
5 temperate as well as brave ; these virtues are divided between 
the young and the old ; the young are brave but intemperate, 
the old temperate but cowardly. To put it generally, all 
the valuable qualities that youth and age divide between 
them are united in the prime of life, while all their excesses 
or defects are replaced by moderation and fitness. The 

10 body is in its prime from thirty to five-and-thirty ; the 
mind about forty-nine.^ 

So much for the types of character that distinguish youth, 15 
old age, and the prime of life. We will now turn to those 

15 Gifts of Fortune by which human character is affected. 
First let us consider Good Birth. Its effect on character is 
to make those who have it more ambitious ; it is the way of 
all men who have something to start with to add to the pile, 
and good birth implies ancestral distinction The well-born 

20 man will look down even on those who are as good as his 
own ancestors, because any far-off distinction is greater than 

' It is sometimes supposed that Aristotle was writing the Rhetoric 
about the age of lorty-nine. 

BOOK II. 15 1390* 

the same thing close to us, and better to boast about. ^ 
Being well-born, which means coming of a fine stock, must 
be distinguished from nobility, which means being true to 
the family nature — a quality not usually found in the well- 
born, most of whom are poor creatures. In the generations 
of men as in the fruits of the earth, there is a varying yield ; as 
now and then, where the stock is good, exceptional men are 
produced for a while, and then decadence sets in.^ A clever 
stock will degenerate towards the insane type of character, 
like the descendants of Alcibiades or of the elder Dionysius ; 
a steady stock towards the fatuous and torpid type, like the 30 
descendants of Cimon, Pericles, and Socrates. 

16 The type of character produced by Wealth lies on the 
surface for all to see. Wealthy men are insolent and 
arrogant ; their possession of wealth affects their under- 
standing ; they feel as if they had every good thing that 
exists; wealth becomes a sort of standard of value for 
everything else, and therefore they imagine there is nothing 1391* 
it cannot buy. They are luxurious and ostentatious ; luxu- 
rious, because of the luxury in which they live and the 
prosperity which they display ; ostentatious and vulgar, 
because, like other people's, their minds are regularly occu- 
pied with the object of their love and admiration, and also 5 
because they think that other people's idea of happiness is 
the same as their own. It is indeed quite natural that they 
should be affected thus ; for if you have money, there are 
always plenty of people who come begging from you. 
Hence the saying of Simonides about wise men and rich 
men, in answer to Hiero's wife, who asked him whether it 
was better to grow rich or wise. ' Why, rich,' he said ; 10 
'for I see the wise men spending their days at the rich 
men's doors.' Rich men alsa consider themselves worthy 
to hold public office ; for they consider they already have 
the things that give a claim to office. In a word, the type 

' i. e. his own ancestors may not be any better than the contem- 
poraries he looks down on, but their distinction (such as it is) has the 
boasted patina of age upon it. 

* avah'ihuiaw may also be taken transitively : ' and then (after an 
interval of unproductiveness) the families begin again to produce them' 


of character produced by wealth is that of a prosperous fool. 
There is indeed one difference between the type of the 
15 newly-enriched and those who have long been rich: the 
newly-enriched have all the bad qualities mentioned in an 
exaggerated and worse form — to be newly-enriched means, 
so to speakj no education in riches. The wrongs they do 
others are not meant to injure their victims, but spring from 
insolence or self-indulgence, e. g. those that end in assault or 
in adultery. 

30 As to Power : here too it may fairly be said that the type I7 
of character it produces is mostly obvious enough. Some 
elements in this type it shares with the wealthy type, others 
are better. Those in power are more ambitious and more 
manly in character than the wealthy, because they aspire to 
do the great deeds that their power permits them to do. 

35 Responsibility makes them more serious : they have to keep 
paying attention to the duties their position involves. They 
are dignified rather than arrogant, for the respect in which 
they are held inspires them with dignity and therefore with 
moderation — dignity being a mild and becoming form of 
arrogance. If they wrong others, they wrong them not on 
a small but on a great scale. 

30 Good fortune in certain of its branches produces the types 
of character belonging to the conditions just described,^ since 
these conditions are in fact more or less the kinds of good 
fortune that are regarded as most important. It may be 
added that good fortune leads us to gain all we can in the 
way of family happiness and bodily advantages.^ It does 
1391 indeed make men more supercilious and more reckless ; but 
there is one excellent quality that goes with it — piety, and 
respect for the divine power, in which they believe because 
of events which are really the result of chance. 

This account of the types of character that correspond to 

5 differences of age ^ or fortune* may end here ; for to arrive 
at the opposite types to those described, namely, those of 
the poor, the unfortunate, and the powerless, we have only 
to ask what the opposite qualities are. 


viz, good birth, wealth, and power. * Cp. 1360'' 19-23. 

ii, cc. 12-14. * >' cc. 15-17. 

BOOK II. 18 1391" 

18 The use of persuasive speech is to lead to decisions. 
(When we know a thing, and have decided about it, there is 
no further use in speaking about it.) This is so even if one 
is addressing a single person and urging him to do or not 10 
to do something, as when we scold a man for his conduct or 
try to change his views : the single person is as much your 
'judge' as if he were one of many ; we may say, without 
qualification, that any one is your judge whom you have to 
persuade. Nor does it matter whether we are arguing 
against an actual opponent or against a mere proposition ; 
in the latter case we still have to use speech and overthrow 
the opposing arguments, and we attack these as we should 15 
attack an actual opponent. Our principle holds good of 
ceremonial speeches also ; the ' onlookers ' for whom such 
a speech is put together are treated as the judges of it. 
Broadly speaking, however, the only sort of person who can 
strictly be called a judge is the man who decides the issue in 
some matter of public controversy ; that is, in law suits and 
in political debates, in both of which there are issues to 
be decided. In the section on political oratory an account 
has already been given of the types of character that mark 30 
the different constitutions.^ 

The manner and means of investing speeches with moral 
character may now be regarded as fully set forth. 

Each of the main divisions of oratory has, we have seen,^ 
its own distinct purpose. With regard to each division, we 
have noted the accepted views and propositions upon which 
we may base our arguments — for political,^ for ceremonial,* a^ 
and for forensic speaking.^ We have further determined 
completely by what means speeches may be invested with 
the required moral character. We are now to proceed to 
discuss the arguments common to all oratory. All orators, 
besides their special lines of argument, are bound to use, 
for instance, the topic of the Possible and Impossible ; " 
and to try to show that a thing has happened, or will :,o 
happen in future. Again, the topic of Size is common 
to all oratory ; all of us have to argue that things are bigger 

' i, c. 8. '^ i, c. 3. ' i, cc. 4-8. '' i, c. 9. ' i, cc. ic-14. 
' Bywater tm Trepl bvvaTov : and ro trfpi fifyfOovs in 1. 32. 


or smaller than they seem, whether we are making political 
speeches, speeches of eulogy or attack, or prosecuting or 
1393^ defending in the law-courts. Having analysed these subjects, 
we will try to say what we can about the general principles 
of arguing by ' enthymeme ' and ' example ', by the addition 
of which we may hope to complete the project with which 
we set out. Of the above-mentioned general lines of argu- 
ment, that concerned with Amplification is — as has been 
5 already said ^ — most appropriate to ceremonial speeches ; 
that concerned with the Past, to forensic speeches, where 
the required decision is always about the past ; that 
concerned with Possibility and the Future, to political 

Let us first speak of the Possible and Impossible. 19 
It may plausibly be argued : That if it is possible for 
one of a pair of contraries to be or happen, then it is 

10 possible for the other : e. g. if a man can be cured, he can 
also fall ill ; for any two contraries are equally possible, 
in so far as they are contraries. That if of two similar 
things one is possible, so is the other. That if the harder 
of two things is possible, so is the easier. That if a thing 
can come into existence in a good and beautiful form, then 
it can come into existence generally ; thus a house can exist 

15 more easily than a beautiful house. That if the beginning 
of a thing can occur, so can the end ; for nothing impossible 
occurs or begins to occur ; thus the commensurability of the 
diagonal of a square with its side neither occurs nor can 
begin to occur. That if the end is possible, so is the begin- 

20 ning ; for all things that occur have a beginning. That if that 
which is posterior in essence or in order of generation can 
come into being, so can that which is prior: thus if a man 
can come into being, so can a boy, since the boy comes first 
in order of generation ; and if a boy can, so can a man, 
for the man also is first.^ That those things are possible of 

25 which the love or desire is natural ; for no one, as a rule, 
loves or desires impossibilities. That things which are the 

' i, c. 9. 

^ viz. in essence : rather than, ' for the boy is the beginning '. 

BOOK II. 19 139a* 

object of any kind of science or art are possible and exist 
or come into existence. That anything is possible the first 
step in whose production depends on men or things which 
we can compel or persuade to produce it, by our greater 
strength, our control of them, or our friendship with them. 
That where the parts are possible, the whole is possible ; 
and where the whole is possible, the parts are usually 3° 
possible. For if the slit in front, the toe- piece, and the upper 
leather can be made, then shoes can be made ; and if shoes, 
then also the front slit and toe-piece. That if a whole 139a'' 
genus is a thing that can occur, so can the species ; and if 
the species can occur, so can the genus : thus, if a sailing 
vessel can be made, so also can a trireme ; and if a trireme, 
then a sailing vessel also. That if one of two things whose 
existence depends on each other is possible, so is the other ; 
for instance, if 'double', then 'half, and if 'half, then 
' double '. That if a thing can be produced without art or 5 
preparation, it can be produced still more certainly by the 
careful application of art to it. Hence Agathon has said : 

To some things we by art must needs attain, 
Others by destiny or luck we gain.^ 

That if anything is possible to inferior, weaker, and stupider 10 
people, it is more so for their opposites ; thus Isocrates said 
that it would be a strange thing if he could not discover a 
thing that Euthynus had found out.'^ As for Impossibility, 
we can clearly get what we want by taking the contraries of 
the arguments stated above. 

Questions of Past Fact may be looked at in the following 
ways : First, that if the less likely of two things has occurred, 15 
the more likely must have occurred also. That if one thing 
that usually follows another has happened, then that other 
thing has happened ; that, for instance, if a man has 
forgotten a thing, he has also once learnt it. That if a man 
had the power and the wish to do a thing, he has done it ; 
for every one does do whatever he intends to do whenever 
he can do it, there being nothing to stop him. That, .;o 
further, he has done the thing in question either if he 

' Agathon, fragm. 8, N.* " Cp. Isocr. xviii. 15. 


intended it and nothing external prevented him ; or if he 
had the power to do it and was angry at the time ; or if 
he had the power to do it and his heart was set upon it — for 
people as a rule do what they long to do, if they can ; 
bad people through lack of self-control ; good people, 
because their hearts are set upon good things. Again, that 

35 if a thing was ' going to happen', it has happened ; if a (nan 
was 'going to do something', he has done it, for it is 
likely that the intention was carried out. That if one 
thing has happened which naturally happens before 
another or with a view to it, the other has happened ; for 
instance, if it has lightened, it has also thundered ; and 
if an action has been attempted, it has been done. That 
if one thing has happened which naturally happens after 
another, or with a view to which that other happens, 
then that other (that which happens first, or happens with 
a view to this thing) has also happened ; thus, if it has 

30 thundered it has also lightened, and if an action has been 
done it has been attempted. Of all these sequences some 
are inevitable and some merely usual. The arguments for 
the /;<?«- occurrence of anything can obviously be found by 
considering the opposites of those that have been mentioned. 
1393^ How questions of Future Fact should be argued is clear 
from the same considerations : That a thing will be done if 
there is both the power and the wish to do it ; or if a,long 
with the power to do it there is a craving for the result, or 
anger, or calculation, prompting it.^ That the thing will be 
done, in these case?, if the man is actually setting about it, 
or even if he means to do it later — for usually what we mean 
5 to do happens rather than what we do not mean to do. 
That a thing will happen if another thing which naturally 
happens before it has already happened ; thus, if it is 
clouding over, it is likely to rain. That if the means to an 
end have occurred, then the end is likely to occur; thus, if 
there is a foundation, there will be a house. 

For arguments about the Greatness and Smallness of 

10 things, the greater and the lesser, and generally great things 
and small, what we have already said will show the line to 
' Full stop (not comma) after oma. 

BOOK IT. 19 1393« 

take. In discussing deliberative oratory we have spoken 
about the relative greatness of various goods, and about the 
greater and lesser in general.^ Since therefore in each type 
of oratory the object under discussion is some kind of 
good— whether it is utility, nobleness, or justice — it is clear 
that every orator must obtain the materials of amplifica- 
tion through these channels.^ To go further than this, and 15 
try to establish abstract laws of greatness and superiority, 
is to argue without an object ; in practical life, particular 
facts count more than generalizations. 

Enough has now been said about these questions of 
possibility and the reverse, of past or future fact, and of the 20 
relative greatness or smallness of things. 

20 The special forms of oratorical argument having now been 
discussed, we have next to treat of those which are common 
to all kinds of oratory. These are of two main kinds, 
' Example ' and ' Enthymeme ' ; for the ' Maxim ' is part 
of an enthymeme.^ 

We will first treat of argument by Example, for it has the 25 
nature of induction, which is the foundation of reasoning. 
This form of argument has two varieties ; one consisting 
in the mention of actual past facts, the other in the invention 
of facts by the speaker. Of the latter, again, there are two 
varieties, the illustrative parallel and the fable (e. g. the 
fables of Aesop, or those from Libya). As an instance of 30 
the mention of actual facts, take the following. The 
speaker may argue thus : ' We must prepare for war against 
the king of Persia and not let him subdue Egypt. For 
Darius of old did not cross the Aegean until he had seized 1393* 
Egypt ; but once he had seized it, he did cross. And 
Xerxes, again, did not attack us until he had seized Egypt ; 
but once he had seized it, he did cross. If therefore the 
present king seizes Egypt, he also will cross, and therefore 
we must not let him.' 

The illustrative parallel is the sort of argument Socrates 
used : e. g. ' Public officials ought not to be selected by lot. 

' i, c. 7. ' i.e. some kind of good. 

' i.e. not (as some think) a third main kind. Cp. 1 394" 27-9. 

04J10 I 


5 That is like using the lot to select athletes, instead of 
choosing those who are fit for the contest ; or using the lot 
to select a steersman from among a ship's crew, as if we 
ought to take the man on whom the lot falls, and not the 
man who knows most about it.' 

Instances of the fable are that of Stesichorus about 
Phalaris, and that of Aesop in defence of the popular 
lo leader. When the people of Himera had made Phalaris 
military dictator, and were going to give him a bodyguard, 
Stesichorus wound up a long talk by telling them the fable 
of the horse who had a field all to himself. Presently there 
came a stag and began to spoil his pasturage. The horse, 
15 wishing to revenge himself on the stag, asked a man if he 
could help him to do so. The man said, ' Yes, if you will 
let me bridle you and get on to your back with javelins in 
my hand '. The horse agreed, and the man mounted ; but 
instead of getting his revenge on the stag, the horse found 
himself the slave of the man. ' You too ', said Stesichorus, 
20 ' take care lest, in your desire for revenge on your enemies, 
you meet the same fate as the horse. By making Phalaris 
military dictator, you have already let yourselves be bridled. 
If you let him get on to your backs by giving him a body- 
guard, from that moment you will be his slaves.' 

Aesop, defending before the assembly at Samos a popular 
leader who was being tried for his life, told this story : A 
25 fox, in crossing a river, was swept into a hole in the rocks ; 
and, not being able to get out, suffered miseries for a long 
time through the swarms of fleas that fastened on her. 
A hedgehog, while roaming around, noticed the fox ; and 
feeling sorry for her asked if he might remove the fleas. 
But the fox declined the offer ; and when the hedgehog 
asked why, she replied, ' These fleas are by this time full of 
30 me and not sucking much blood ; if you take them away, 
others will come with fresh appetites and drink up all the 
blood I have left.' ' So, men of Samos ', said Aesop, ' my 
client will do you no further harm ; he is wealthy already. 
But if you put him to death, others will come along who are 
1394* not rich, and their peculations will empty your treasury 

BOOK II. 20 1394' 

Fables are suitable for addresses to popular assemblies ; 
and they have one advantage — they are comparatively easy 
to invent, whereas it is hard to find parallels among actual 
past events. You will in fact frame them just as you 
frame illustrative parallels: all you require is the power of 5 
thinking out your analogy, a power developed by intellectual 
training. But while it is easier to supply parallels by 
inventing fables, it is more valuable for the political speaker 
to supply them by quoting what has actually happened, 
since in most respects the future will be like what the past 
has been. 

Where we are unable to argue by Enthymeme, we must 
try to demonstrate our point by this method of Example, 10 
and to convince our hearers thereby. If we can argue by 
Enthymeme, we should use our Examples as subsequent 
supplementary evidence. They should not precede the 
Enthymemes : that will give the argument an inductive air, 
which only rarely suits the conditions of speech-making.^ 
If they follow the enthymemes, they have the effect of 
witnesses giving evidence, and this always tells. For the 
same reason, if you put your examples first you must give 15 
a large number of them ; if you put them last, a single one 
is sufficient ; even a single witness will serve if he is a good 
one. It has now been stated how many varieties of 
argument by Example there are, and how and when they 
are to be employed, 

21 We now turn to the use of Maxims, in order to see upon 
what subjects and occasions, and for what kind of speaker, 20 
they will appropriately form part of a speech. This will 
appear most clearly when we have defined a maxim. It is 
a statement; not about a particular fact, such as the 
character of Iphicrates, but of a general kind ; nor is it 
about any and every subject — e. g. ' straight is the contrary 
of curved ' is not a maxim — but only about questions of 
practical conduct, courses of conduct to be chosen or 35 
avoided. Now an Enthymeme is a syllogism dealing with 

' Perhaps, 'which does not suit skilled orators except before a small 
audience '. 

I a 



such practical subjects. It is therefore roughly true that 
the premisses or conclusions of Enthymemes, considered 
apart from the rest of the argument, are Maxims : e. g. 

Never should any man whose wits are sound 
30 Have his sons taught more wisdom than their fellows.^ 

Here we have a Maxim ; add the reason or explanation, 
and the whole thing is an Enthymeme ; thus — 

It makes them idle ; and therewith they earn 
Ill-will and jealousy throughout the city.^ 

1394*' Again, 

There is no man in all things prosperous,^ 

There is no man among us all is free, 

5 are maxims ; but the latter, taken with what follows it, is 
an Enthymeme — 

For all are slaves of money or of chance.* 

From this definition of a maxim it follows that there are 
four kinds of maxims. In the first place, the maxim may 
or may not have a supplement. Proof is needed where 
the statement is paradoxical ^ or disputable ; no supplement 
Tr. is wanted where the statement contains nothing paradoxical,^ 
either because the view expressed is already a known 
truth, e.g. 

Chiefest of blessings is health for a man, as it seemeth 
to me,^ 

this being the general opinion : or because, as soon as the 
^^ view is stated, it is clear at a glance, e. g. 

No love is true save that which loves for ever." 

Of the Maxims that do have a supplement attached, some 
are part of an Enthymeme, e. g. 

Never should any man whose wits are sound, &c.* 

Others have the essential character of Enthymemes, but are 
not stated as parts of Enthymemes ; these latter are reckoned 

' Euripides, Medea, 295. ' ib. 297. ' Euripides, fragm. 661, N.^ 

* Euripides, Hecuba, 864 f. 

* Surprising, startling, heretical, unorthodox. 

" Possibly a fragment of Epicharmus ; cp. Meineke, Fragmeiita 
Comicorum Graecorum, iii, pp. 169, 1 70. 
' Euripides, Troades, 105 1. * Euripides, tifedea, 295. 

BOOK II. ai 1394" 

the best ; they are those in which the reason for the view 30 
expressed is simply implied, e. g. 

O mortal man, nurse not immortal wrath.^ 
To say ' it is not right to nurse immortal wrath ' is a 
maxim ; the added words * O mortal man ' give the reason. 
Similarly, with the words 

Mortal creatures ought to cherish mortal, not immortal 

What has been said has shown us how many kinds of 25 
Maxim there are, and to what subjects the various kinds are 
appropriate. They must not be given without supplement 
if they express disputed or paradoxical views : we must, in 
that case, either put the supplement first and make a maxim 
of the conclusion, e. g. you might say, ' For my part, since 
both unpopularity and idleness are undesirable, I hold that 30 
it is better not to be educated' ; or you may say this first, 
and then add the previous clause. Where a statement, 
without being paradoxical, is not obviously true, the reason 
should be added as concisely as possible. In such cases 
both laconic and enigmatic sayings are suitable : thus one 
might say what Stesichorus said to the Locrians, ' Insolence 1395* 
is better avoided, lest the cicalas chirp on the ground '.^ 

The use of Maxims is appropriate only to elderly men, 
and in handling subjects in which the speaker is experienced. 
For a young man to use them is — like telling stories — 
unbecoming; to use them in handling things in which one 
has no experience is silly and ill-bred : a fact sufficiently 5 
proved by the special fondness of country fellows for striking 
out maxims, and their readiness to air them,* 

To declare a thing to be universally true when it is not is 
most appropriate when working up feelings of horror and 
indignation in our hearers ; especially by way of preface, or 
after the facts have been proved. Even hackneyed and 
commonplace maxims are to be used, if they suit one's 10 
purpose : just because they are commonplace, every one 

^ Fragm. Adesp. 79, N." ' Epicharmus? 

' Cp. Roberts, Demetrius on Style, pp. 119, 181, 260. The cicalas 
would have to chirp on the ground if an enemy cut down the trees. 
* Not inserting KaQoKov. 


seems to agree with them, and therefore they are taken for 
truth. Thus, any one who is calling on his men to risk an 
engagement without obtaining favourable omens may quote 

One omen of all is best, that we fight for our fatherland.^ 

Or, if he is calling on them to attack a stronger force — 

15 The War-God showeth no favour.'^ 

Or, if he is urging people to destroy the innocent children 
of their enemies — 

Fool, who slayeth the father and leaveth his sons to avenge 

Some proverbs are also maxims, e. g. the proverb ' An Attic 
neighbour '.■* You are not to avoid uttering maxims that 
contradict such sayings as have become public property 

30 (I mean such sayings as 'know thyself and 'nothing in 
excess *), if doing so will raise your hearers' opinion of your 
character, or convey an effect of strong emotion — e.g. an 
angry speaker might well say, ' It is not true that we ought 
to know ourselves : anyhow, if this man had known himself, 
he would never have thought himself fit for an army 
command.' It will raise people's opinion of our character 

25 to say, for instance, ' We ought not to follow the saying that 
bids us treat our friends as future enemies : much better 
to treat our enemies as future friends.' ^ The moral purpose 
should be implied partly by the very wording of our maxim. 
Failing this, we should add our reason : e. g. having said 
' We should treat our friends, not as the saying advises, but 
as if they were going to be our friends always ', we should 
add ' for the other behaviour is that of a traitor ' : or we 

30 might put it, ' I disapprove of that saying. A true friend 
will treat his friend as if he were going to be his friend for 
ever ' ; and again, ' Nor do I approve of the saying 
" nothing in excess " : we are bound to hate bad men 

^ Iliad, xii. 243. ' Ibid, xviii. 309. ' Cp. i, c. 15, 1376" 7. 

* When put in the form of a proposition ('An Attic neighbour is a 
restless neighbour'), this is a maxim. For the proverb itself see 
Zenobii Centuria, ii. 28 (Leutsch and Schneidewin, Paroemiographi 
Graeci, i, p. 40^ and cp. Roberts, Aniievt Boeotian:^, pp. 21 fF. 

» Cp. 11, c. 13, 13^9 '23-3- 

BOOK II. 21 lags'* 

One great advantage of Maxims to a speaker is due to 1395*' 
the want of intelligence in his hearers, who love to hear him . 
succeed in expressing as a universal truth the opinions 
which they hold themselves about particular cases. I will 
explain what I mean by this, indicating at the same 
time how we are to hunt down the maxims required. The 
maxim, as has been already said,^ is a general statement, 5 
and people love to hear stated in general terms what they 
already believe in some particular connexion : e. g. if a 
man happens to have bad neighbours or bad children, he 
will agree with any one who tells him, ' Nothing is more 
annoying than having neighbours ', or, ' Nothing is more 
foolish than to be the parent of children.' The orator 
has therefore to guess the subjects on which his hearers 10 
really hold views already, and what those views are, and 
then must express, as general truths, these same views on 
these same subjects. This is one advantage of using 
maxims. There is another which is more important — it 
invests a speech with moral character. There is moral 
character in every speech in which the moral purpose is 
conspicuous : and maxims always produce this effect, 
because the utterance of them amounts to a general declara- 15 
tion of moral principles : so that, if the maxims are sound, 
they display the speaker as a man of sound moral 
character. So much for the Maxim— its nature, varieties, 
proper use, and advantages. 

32 We now come to the Enthymemes, and will begin the 20 
subject with some general consideration of the proper way 
of looking for them, and then proceed to what is a distinct 
question, the lines of argument to be embodied in them. 
It has already ^ been pointed out that the Enthymeme 
is a syllogism, and in what sense it is so. We have also 
noted the differences between it and the syllogism of 
dialectic. Thus we must not carry its reasoning too far 
back, or the length of our argument will cause obscurity : 35 
nor must we put in all the steps that lead to our conclusion, 
or we shall waste words in saying what is manifest. It is this 

' 1394*23. "^ i, c. 2, 1356'^ 3, 1357*16. 


simplicity that makes the uneducated more effective than the 
educated when addressing popular audiences — makes them, 
as the poets ^ tell us, ' charm the crowd's ears more finely '. 

30 Educated men lay down broad general principles ; unedu- 
cated men argue from common knowledge and draw obvious 
conclusions. We must not, therefore, start from any and 
every accepted opinion, but only from those we have defined 
— those accepted by our judges or by those whose authority 
1396* they recognize : and there must, moreover, be no doubt in 
the minds of most, if not all, of our judges that the opinions 
put forward really are of this sort. We should also base our 
arguments upon probabilities as well as upon certainties. 
The first thing we have to remember is this. Whether 

5 our argument concerns public affairs or some other subject, 
we must know some, if not all, of the facts about the subject 
on which we are to speak and argue. Otherwise we can 
have no materials out of which to construct arguments. I 
mean, for instance, how could we advise the Athenians 
whether they should go to war or not, if we did not know 
their strength, whether it was naval or military or both, and 

10 how great it is ; what their revenues amount to ; who their 
friends and enemies are ; what wars, too, they have waged, 
and with what success ; and so on ? Or how could we 
eulogize them if we knew nothing about the sea-fight at 
Salamis, or the battle of Marathon, or what they did for the 
Heracleidae, or any other facts like that? All eulogy is 

15 based upon the noble deeds — real or imaginary — that stand 
to the credit of those eulogized. On the same principle, 
invectives are based on facts of the opposite kind : the 
orator looks to see what base deeds— real or imaginary — 
stand to the discredit of those he is attacking, such as 
treachery to the cause of Hellenic freedom, or the enslave- 
ment of their gallant allies against the barbarians (Aegina,''* 

20 Potidaea,^ &c.), or any other misdeeds of this kind that are 
recorded against them. So, too, in a court of law : whether 
we are prosecuting or defending, we must pay attention to 
the existing facts of the case. It makes no difference 

' Cp. Euripides, Hippolytiis, 989. * Cp. Thucyd. ii. 27; iv, 57. 
' Cp. Thucyd. ii. 70. 

BOOK II. 22 1396* 

whether the subject is the Lacedaemonians or the Athenians, 
a man or a god ; we must do the same thing. Suppose it 
to be Achilles whom we are to advise, to praise or blame, to 25 
accuse or defend ; here too we must take the facts, real or 
imaginary ; these must be our material, whether we are to 
praise or blame him for the noble or base deeds he has done, 
to accuse or defend him for his just or unjust treatment of 
others, or to advise him about what is or is not to his 30 
interest. The same thing applies to any subject whatever. 
Thus, in handling the question whether justice is or is not 
a good, we must start with the real facts about justice and 
goodness. We see, then, that this is the only way in which 
any one ever proves anything, whether his arguments are 1396*' 
strictly cogent or not : not all facts can form his basis, but 
only those that bear on the matter in hand : nor, plainly, can 
proof be effected otherwise by means of the speech. Con- 
sequently, as appears in the Topics,^ we must first of all have 
by us a selection of arguments about questions that may 5 
arise and are suitable for us to handle ; and then we must 
try to think out arguments of the same type for special needs 
as they emerge ; not vaguely and indefinitely, but by keeping 
our eyes on the actual facts of the subject we have to speak 
on, and gathering in as many of them as we can that bear 
closely upon it : for the more actual facts we have at our 
command, the more easily we prove our case ; and the more 10 
closely they bear on the subject, the more they will seem to 
belong to that speech only instead of being commonplaces. 
By ' commonplaces ' I mean, for example, eulogy of Achilles 
because he is a human being or a demi-god, or because he 
joined the expedition against Troy : these things are true of 
many others, so that this kind of eulogy applies no better 
to Achilles than to Diomede. The special facts here needed 15 
are those that are true of Achilles alone ; such facts as that 
he slew Hector, the bravest of the Trojans, and Cycnus the 
invulnerable, who prevented all the Greeks from landing, and 
again that he was the youngest man who joined the ex- 
pedition, and was not bound by oath to join it, and so on. 
Here, then, we have our first principle of selection of 20 

* Cp. Top. i, c. 14. 


Enthymemes— that which refers to the lines of argument 
selected. We will now consider the various elementary 
classes of enthymemes. (By an ' elementary class ' of enthy- 
meme I mean the same thing as a ' line of argument ' ) We 
will begin, as we must begin, by observing that there are two 

35 kinds of enthymemes. One kind proves some affirmative 
or negative proposition ; the other kind disproves one. The 
difference between the two kinds is the same as that between 
syllogistic proof and disproof in dialectic. The demonstra- 
tive enthymeme is formed by the conjunction of compatible 
propositions; the refutative, by the conjunction of incom- 
patible propositions. 

We may now be said to have in our hands the lines of 
argument for the various special subjects that it is useful 

30 or necessary to handle, having selected the propositions 
suitable in various cases. We have, in fact, already as- 
certained the lines of argument applicable to enthymemes 
about good and evil, the noble and the base, justice and 
injustice, and also to those about types of character, 
emotions, and moral qualities.* Let us now lay hold 
1397* of certain facts about the whole subject, considered from 
a different and more general point of view. In the course 
of our discussion we will take note of the distinction 
between lines of proof and lines of disproof:^ and also of 
those lines of argument used in what seem to be enthymemes, 
but are not, since they do not represent valid syllogisms.^ 
Having made all this clear, we will proceed to classify 
5 Objections and Refutations, showing how they can be 
brought to bear upon enthymemes.* 

I. One line of positive proofs is based upon consideration 23 

of the opposite of the thing in question. Observe whether 

that opposite has the opposite quality.^ If it has not, you 

refute the original proposition ; if it has, you establish 

10 it. E. g. * Temperance is beneficial ; for licentiousness is 

hurtful '. Or, as in the Messenian speech,^ ' If war is the 

' i, cc. 4-14 ; ii, cc. 1-18. ' ii, c. 23, * it, c. 24. * ii, c. 25. 
* Positive proof, as opposed to Refutation. 

® i.e. the quality opposite to that which, in the proposition under 
examination, is said to attach to the original thing. 
^ Cp. 1373'' 18. 

BOOK II. 33 I397' 

cause of our present troubles, peace is what we need to put 
things right again '.^ Or — 

For if not even evil-doers should 

Anger us if they meant not what they did, 

Then can we owe no gratitude to such 

As were constrained to do the good they did us.'^ 15 


Since in this world liars may win belief, 

Be sure of the opposite likewise — that this world 

Hears many a true word and believes it not.^ 

2. Another line of proof is got by considering some 
modification of the key-word, and arguing that what can or 20 
cannot be said of the one, can or cannot be said of the 
other: e.g. 'just' does not always mean 'beneficial', or 
'justly' would always mean 'beneficially', whereas it is not 
desirable to be justly put to death.'* 

3. Another line of proof is based upon correlative ideas. 
If it is true that one man gave noble or just treatment to 
another, you argue that the other must have received noble 
or just treatment ; or that where it is right to command 
obedience, it must have been right to obey the command. 
Thus Diomedon, the tax-farmer, said of the taxes : ' If it is 35 
no disgrace for you to sell them,° it is no disgrace for us to 
buy them '.^ Further, if 'well' or 'justly' is true of the 
person to whom a thing is done, you argue that it is true of 
the doer. But it is possible to draw a false conclusion here. 
It may be just that A should be treated in a certain way, 
and yet not just that he should be so treated by B. Hence 3° 
you must ask yourself two distinct questions : (i) Is it right 

that A should be thus treated ? (2) Is it right that B should 1397* 
thus treat him? and apply your results properly, according 
as your answers are Yes or No. Sometimes in such a 
case the two answers differ : you may quite easily have 
a position like that in the Alcmaeon of Theodectes : 

^ Cp. Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Alt., Pt. ii, p. 1 54 ( Alcid., Messen., fragm. 2). 
^ Fragm. Adesp. 80, Nauck^; possibly by Agathon,, or Theodectes, 
or Antiphon. 

^ Euripides, Thyestes, fragm. 396, N.'* * Cp. i, c. 9, 1366*' 33. 

• i. e. the right of collecting them. 


And was there none to loathe thy mother's crime ? ^ 

to which question Alcmaeon in reply says, 

Why, there are two things to examine here. 

5 And when Alphesiboea asks what he means, he rejoins : 

They judged her fit to die, not me to slay her. 

Again there is the lawsuit about Demosthenes and the men 
who killed Nicanor ; as they were judged to have killed 
him justly, it was thought that he was killed justly. And 
in the case of the man who was killed at Thebes, the judges 

lo were requested to decide whether it was unjust that he 
should be killed, since if it was not, it was argued that it 
could not have been unjust to kill him. 

4. Another line of proof is the a fortiori. Thus it may 
be argued that if even the gods are not omniscient, certainly 
human beings are not. The principle here is that, if a 
quality does not in fact exist where it is more likely to 
exist, it clearly does not exist where it is less likely. Again, 

'5 the argument that a man who strikes his father also strikes 
his neighbours follows from the principle that, if the less 
likely thing is true, the more likely thing is true also ; for a 
man is less likely to strike his father than to strike his 
neighbours. The argument, then, may run thus. Or it 
may be urged that, if a thing is not true where it is more 
likely, it is not true where it is less likely ; or that, if it is 
true where it is less likely, it is true where it is more likely : 
according as we have to show that a thing is or is not true.^ 
This argument might also be used in a case of parity, as in 
the lines : 

Thou hast pity for thy sire, who has lost his sons : 
20 Hast none for Oeneus, whose brave son is dead?^ 

^ i. e. was there nobody who thought the slaying of her a just act ? — 
Theodectes, Alcmaeon, N.', p. 801. 

' The reasoning in the text shows confusion, and the text is un- 
certain. We might rather have expected the following connexion of 
thought : ' The argument, then, may run thus— that if the less likely is 
true the more likely is true ; or as before — that if the more likely is 
not true, the less likely is not true : according as we have <o 
show, &c.' 

^ Fragm. Adesp. 81, Nauck* ; ? from the Meleager of Antiphon or 

BOOK II. 33 1397" 

And, again, 'if Theseus did no wrong, neither did Paris'; 
or 'i( the sons of Tyndareus did no wrong, neither did 
Paris ' ; or ' if Hector did well to slay Patroclus, Paris did 
well to slay Achilles '} And ' if other followers of an art 
are not bad men, neither are philosophers '.^ And * if 
generals are not bad men because it often happens that 
they are condemned to death, neither are sophists '. And 25 
the remark that ' if each individual among you ought to 
think of his own city's reputation, you ought all to think of 
the reputation of Greece as a whole '. 

5. Another line of argument is based on considerations 
of time. Thus Iphicrates, in the case against Harmodius, 
said, 'if before doing the deed I had bargained that, if I 
did it, I should have a statue, you would have given 
me one. Will you not give me one now that I ^ave done 
the deed ? You must not make promises when you are 30 
expecting a thing to be done for you, and refuse to fulfil 
them when the thing has been done.* ^ And, again, to 
induce the Thebans to let Philip pass through their territory 

into Attica, it was argued * that ' if he had insisted on this 1398* 
before he helped them against the Phocians, they would 
have promised to do it. It is monstrous, therefore, that 
just because he threw away his advantage then, and trusted 
their honour, they should not let him pass through now '. 

6. Another line is to apply to the other speaker what he 
has said against yourself. It is an excellent turn to give 
to a debate, as may be seen in the Teucer.^ It was 
employed by Iphicrates in his reply to Aristophon. ' Would 5 
yoii \ he asked, ' take a bribe to betray the fleet ? ' 'No', 
said Aristophon; and Iphicrates replied, 'Very good: if 
you, who are Aristophon, would not betray the fleet, would 
I, who am Iphicrates ? ' ^ Only, it must be recognized before- 
hand that the other man is more likely than you are to 
commit the crime in question. Otherwise you will make 

' Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Alt., Pt. ii, p. 223 ; Polycrates, Or. ix, fragm. i. 

'^ Cp. I Socrates, Antuiosis, § 209. 

' Baiter-Sauppe, p. 179 ; Lysias, Or. xviii, fragm. i. 

* Sc. by Philip's ambassadors to the Thebans. 

^ Of Sophocles ; cp. iii, c. 15, 1416'' i. 

« Baiter-Sauppe, op. cit., p. 191 ; Lysias, Or. Ixv, fragm. I. 


TO yourself ridiculous ; if it is Aristeides who is prosecuting, 
you cannot say that sort of thing to him. The purpose is 
to discredit the prosecutor, who as a rule would have it 
appear that his character is better than that of the 
defendant, a pretension which it is desirable to upset. But 
the use of such an argument is in all cases ridiculous 
if you are attacking others for what you do or would do 
yourself, or are urging others to do what you neither do 
nor would do yourself. 

15 7. Another line of proof is secured by defining your 
terms. Thus, ' What is the supernatural ? Surely it is 
either a god or the work of a god. Well, any one who 
believes that the work of a god exists, cannot help also 
believing that gods exist '.^ Or take the argument of 
Iphicrates, ' Goodness is true nobility ; neither Harmodius 
nor Aristogeiton had any nobility before they did a noble 

20 deed '. He also argued that he himself was more akin 
to Harmodius and Aristogeiton than his opponent was. 
* At any rate, my deeds are more akin to those of Harmodius 
and Aristogeiton than yours are.' ^ Another example may 
be found in the Alexander? * Every one will agree that 
by incontinent people we mean those who are not satisfied 
with the enjoyment of one love.' A further example is to 
be found in the reason given by Socrates for not going 

35 to the court of Archelaus. He said that * one is insulted 
by being unable to requite benefits, as well as by being 
unable to requite injuries'.* All the persons mentioned 
define their term and get at its essential meaning, and 
then use the result when reasoning on the point at issue. 

8. Another line of argument is founded upon the various 
senses of a word. Such a word is ' rightly ', as has been 
explained in the Topics:' 

' Cp. Plato, Apol. 27 c-e. 

" Baiter-Sauppe, op. at., p. 179; Lysias, Or. xviii, fragm. 2. 

* From some rhetorical essay on Alexander (viz. Paris), possibly by 
Polycrates; Cp. Baiter-Sauppe, op. cit., p. 223 (Polycrates, Or. ix, 
fragm. 2). 

* Cp. Xenophon, ApoL .Socr. 17; Diog. Laert., Vit. Socr. ii. 5, 25. 

•' updwi [presumably in the equivocal senses (l) 'in the correct 
technical way ' and (2) ' with moral justification '] is not found in the 
existing text of the Topics, but may have been in the text of a similar 

BOOK II. 23 1398* 

9. Another line is based upon logical division. Thus, 
'All men do wrong from one of three motives, A, B, or C : 30 
in my case A and B are out of the question, and even the 
accusers do not allege C '.^ 

10. Another line is based upon induction. Thus from 
the case of the woman of Peparethus it might be argued 
that women everywhere can settle correctly the facts about 
their children. Another example of this occurred at Athens 1398'' 
in the case between the orator Mantias ^ and his son, when 

the boy's mother revealed the true facts : and yet another 
at Thebes, in the case between Ismenias and Stilbon, when 
Dodonis proved that it was Ismenias who was the father of 
her son Thettaliscus, and he was in consequence always 
regarded as being so. A further instance of induction may 
be taken from the Law of Theodectes : " ' If we do not hand 5 
over our horses to the care of men who have mishandled 
other people's horses, nor ships to those who have wrecked 
other people's ships, and if this is true of everything else 
alike, then men who have failed to secure other people's 
safety are not to be employed to secure our own.' Another 
instance is the argument of Alcidamas : * ' Every one 
honours the wise. Thus the Parians have honoured 10 
Archilochus, in spite of his bitter tongue ; the Chians 
Homer, though he was not their countryman ; the 
Mytilenaeans Sappho, though she was a woman ; the 
Lacedaemonians actually made Chilon a member of their 
senate, though they are the least literary of men ; the 
Italian Greeks honoured Pythagoras ; the inhabitants of 
Lampsacus gave public burial to Anaxagoras, though he 15 
was an alien, and honour him even to this day. (It may be 
argued that peoples for whom philosophers legislate are 
always prosperous) on the ground that the Athenians became 

work when the Rhetoric was written. Possibly, however, tlie meaning 
is, ' It may be mentioned that in the Topics the right use of words has 
been discussed.' — Cp. Topics, i, c. 15 and ii, c. 3. 

* The speaker is supposed to be disproving some charge of wrong- 

'^ Cp. Demosth., Or. xviii, Boeot. tie ttojii,, §§ 7, 10. 
' Cp. 1399'' I infra, and Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Ati,, Pt. ii, p. 247 
(Theodectes, Nd/:iOf, fragm. 1). 

* Baiter-Sauppe, op. cit., p. 155 (Alcidamas, Moi/trelo*', fragm. 2). 


prosperous under Solon's laws and the Lacedaemonians 
under those of Lycurgus, while at Thebes no sooner did the 
leading men become philosophers than the country began 
to prosper. 

11. Another line of argument is founded upon some 
decision already pronounced, whether on the same subject 

3o or on one like it or contrary to it. Such a proof is most 
effective if every one has always decided thus ; but if not 
every one, then at any rate most people ; or if all, or most, 
wise or good men have thus decided, or the actual judges 
of the present question, or those whose authority they 
accept, or any one whose decision they cannot gainsay 
because he has complete control over them, or those whom 
it is not seemly to gainsay, as the gods, or one's father, or 
one's teachers. Thus Autocles said, when attacking 

25 Mixidemides, that it was a strange thing that the Dread 
Goddesses could without loss of dignity submit to the 
judgement of the Areopagus, and yet Mixidemides could 
not.^ Or as Sappho said, ' Death is an evil thing ; the gods 
have so judged it, or they would die'.'^ Or again as 
Aristippus said in reply to Plato when he spoke somewhat 

30 too dogmatically,^ as Aristippus thought : ' Well, anyhow, 
our friend', meaning Socrates, 'never spoke like that'. 
And Hegesippus, having previously consulted Zeus at 
Olympia, asked Apollo at Delphi ' whether his opinion was 
1399* the same as his father's ', implying that it would be shame- 
ful for him to contradict his father. Thus too Isocrates 
argued that Helen must have been a good woman, because 
Theseus decided that she was ; * and Paris a good man, 
because the goddesses chose him before all others ; ° and 
5 Evagoras also, says Isocrates, was good, since when Conon 
met with his misfortune he betook himself to Evagoras 
without trying any one else on the way.^ 

12. Another line of argument consists in taking separately 

' Cp. Baiter-Sauppe, op. di., p. 220 (Autocles). 

^ Sappho, fragm. 137, Bergk^ 

^ ' too professorially ' : (n ayytXriKairfpov. 

* Isocrates, Helen, 18-38. 

* Ibid., 41-8; but cp. Baiter-Sauppe, op. cit., p. 223. 


Isocrates, Evagoras, ci fif. 

BOOK II. 23 1399 

the parts of a subject. Such is that given in the Topics : ^ 
' What sort of motion is the soul ? for it must be this or 
that.' The Socrates of Theodectes provides an example: 
' What temple has he profaned ? What gods recognized 
by the state has he not honoured ? ' ^ 

13. Since it happens that any given thing usually has 
both good and bad consequences, another line of argument 10 
consists in using those consequences as a reason for urging 
that a thing should or should not be done, for prosecuting 
or defending any one, for eulogy or censure. E. g. education 
leads both to unpopularity, which is bad,'^ and to wisdom, 
which is good.* Hence you either argue, ' It is therefore 
not well to be educated, since it is not well to be unpopular ' : 15 
or you answer, ' No, it is well to be educated, since it is well 
to be wise '. The Art of Rhetoric ^ of Callippus is made up 
of this line of argument, with the addition of those of 
Possibility and the others of that kind already described.® 

14. Another line of argument is used when we have to 

urge or discourage a course of action that may be done in 

either of two opposite ways, and have to apply the method 

just mentioned to both. The difference between this one 

and the last is that, whereas in the last any two things are 20 

contrasted, here the things contrasted are opposites. For 

instance, the priestess enjoined upon her son not to take to 

public speaking : ' For ', she said, ' if you say what is right, 

men will hate you ; if you say what is wrong, the gods will 

hate you.' The reply might be, ' On the contrary, you 

ought to take to public speaking : for if you say what is 

right, the gods will love you ; if you say what is wrong, 

men will love you.' This amounts to the proverbial 35 

' buying the marsh with the salt '. It is just this situation, 

viz. when each of two opposites has both a good and a bad 

consequence opposite respectively to each other, that has 

been termed divarication. 

' Cp. Top, ii. 4 ; iv. i. 

"^ Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Ait., Pt. ii, p. 247 (Theodectes, SwK^drouf 
'AjToXo-yta, fragm. l). 

' Reading kokov ov, with Herbert Richards. 

* Cp. Euripides, Medea, 294 : ii, c. 2 supra. 

•* Lit. the Art: viz. the Art (System) of Rhetoric {Oratory). 

• ii, c. 19 supra. 

64810 K 



15. Another line of argument is this: The things people 
approve of openly are not those which they approve of 
secretly: openly, their chief praise is given to justice and 

30 nobleness ; but in their hearts they prefer their own 
advantage. Try, in face of this, to establish the point of 
view which your opponent has not adopted. This is the 
most efifective of the forms of argument that contradict 
common opinion. 

16. Another line is that of rational correspondence. 
E. g. Iphicrates, when they were trying to compel his son, 
a youth under the prescribed age, to perform one of the 

35 state duties because he was tall, said ' If you count tallboys 
men, you will next be voting short men boys'.^ And 
1399^ Theodectes in his Law ^ said, ' You make citizens of such 
mercenaries as Strabax and Charidemus, as a reward of 
their merits ; will you not make exiles of such citizens 
as those who have done irreparable harm among the 
mercenaries ? ' 

17. Another line is the argument that if two results are 
5 the same their antecedents are also the same. For instance, 

it was a saying of Xenophanes that to assert that the gods 
had birth is as impious as to say that they die ; the 
consequence of both statements is that there is a time when 
the gods do not exist.^ This line of proof assumes generally 
that the result of any given thing is always the same : e. g. 
' you are going to decide not about Isocrates, but about 
10 the value of the whole profession of philosophy.' * Or, 'to 
give earth and water ' means slavery ^ ; or, ' to share in the 
Common Peace' means obeying orderc " We are to make 
either such assumptions or their opposite, as suits us best. 

18. Another line of argument is based on the fact that 
men do not always make the same choice on a later as on 
an earlier occasion, but reverse their previous choice. 

15 E.g. the following enthymeme : ' When we were exiles, we 

fought in order to return ; now we have returned, it would 

' Cp. Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Ait., Pt. ii, p. 219. "^ Cp. 1398^6. 

« Diels, Vors}, i, pp. 43, 44. 

* Adopting Spengel's conjecture wtpX 'laoKpirovs for the manuscript 
reading n(p\ ^atKpdrovs : cp. Isocrates nep\ avTi86<Teu>s, § 173. 

* Cp. Herodotus, iv. 126, 127. • Cp. [Demosthenes] Or. xvii, § 30. 


BOOK II. 23 1399 

be strange to choose exile in order not to have to fight.' ^ 
On one occasion, that is, they chose to be true to their 
homes at the cost of fighting, and on the other to avoid 
fighting at the cost of deserting their homes. 

19. Another line of argument is the assertion that some 
possible motive for an event or state of things is the real 
one ; e. g. that a gift was given in order to cause pain by its 20 
withdrawal. This notion underlies the lines : 

God gives to many great prosperity, 

Not of good will towards them, but to make 

The ruin of them more conspicuous.'^ 

Or take the passage from the Meleager of Antiphon : 35 

To slay no boar, but to be witnesses 
Of Meleager's prowess unto Greece.^ 

Or the argument in the Aj'ax* of Theodectes, that Diomede 
chose out Odysseus^ not to do him honour, but in order 
that his companion might be a lesser man than himself — 
such a motive for doing so is quite possible. 30 

20. Another line of argument is common to forensic and 
deliberative oratory, namely, to consider inducements and 
deterrents, and the motives people have for doing or 
avoiding the actions in question. These are the conditions 
which make us bound to act if they are for us, and to refrain 
from action if they are against us : that is, we are bound to 
act if the action is possible, easy, and useful to ourselves or 
our friends or hurtful to our enemies ; this is true even 35 
if the action entails loss, provided the loss is outweighed 
by the solid advantage. A speaker will urge action by 
pointing to such conditions, and discourage it by pointing 

to the opposite. These same arguments also form the 1400^ 
materials for accusation or defence — the deterrents being 
pointed out by the defence, and the inducements by the 
prosecution. As for the defence, . . . This topic forms the 
who\e Art of Rkelortc both of Pamphilusandof Callippus. 

21. Another line of argument refers to things which are 5 
supposed to happen and yet seem incredible. We may argue 

' Cp. Lysias, Or. xxxiv, § 11. ^ Fragm. Adesp. 82, N. 

» Antiphon, fragm. 2, N.'*, p. 792. * Cp. Nauck', p. 801 

' Cp. //tad, X. n 18- 1:4. 

K a 



that people could not have believed them, if they had 
not been true or nearly true : even that they are the more 
likely to be true because they are incredible. For the 
things which men believe are either facts or probabilities : if, 
therefore, a thing that is believed is improbable and even 
incredible, it must be true, since it is certainly not believed 
because it is at all probable or credible. An example is 
what Androcles of the deme Pitthus said in his well- 
known arraignment of the law. The audience tried to 
lo shout him down when he observed that the laws required 
a law to set them right. 'Why,' he went on, 'fish need 
salt, improbable and incredible as this might seem for 
creatures reared in salt water ; and olive-cakes ^ need oil, 
incredible as it is that what produces oil should need it.'^ 

22. Another line of argument is to refute our opponent's 
15 case by noting any contrasts or contradictions of dates, acts, 

or words that it anywhere displays ; and this in any of the 
three following connexions. (1) Referring to our opponent's 
conduct, e. g. ' He says he is devoted to you, yet he con- 
spired with the Thirty.' (2) Referring to our own conduct, 
e. g. ' He says I am litigious, and yet he cannot prove that 
ao I have been engaged in a single lawsuit.' (3) Referring to 
both of us together, e. g. ' He has never even lent any one 
a penny, but / have ransomed quite a number of you.* 

23. Another line that is useful for men and causes that 
have been really or seemingly slandered, is to show why 
the facts are not as supposed ; pointing out that there is a 
reason for the false impression given. Thus a woman, who 

25 had palmed off her son on another woman, was thought 
to be the lad's mistress because she embraced him ; but 
when her action was explained the charge was shown to 
be groundless. Another example is from the Ajax^ of 
Theodectes, where Odysseus tells Ajax the reason why, 
though he is really braver than Ajax, he is not thought so. 

24. Another line of argument is to show that if the cause 
is present, the effect is present, and if absent, absent. For 

^ i.e. cakes made of dried olives. 

- Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Ait., Pt. ii, pp. 153-4 (Androcles). J 

' Cp. Nauck', p. 801. ' 

BOOK II. 23 1400^ 

by proving the cause you at once prove the effect, and 30 
conversely nothing can exist without its cause. Thus 
Thrasybulus accused Leodamas of having had his name 
recorded as a criminal on the slab in the Acropolis, and 
of erasing the record in the time of the Thirty Tyrants : to 
which Leodamas replied, ' Impossible : for the Thirty 
would have trusted me all the more if my quarrel with the 
commons had been inscribed on the slab.' ^ 35 

35. Another line is to consider whether the accused 
person can take or could have taken a better ^ course than 
that which he is recommending or taking, or has taken. If 
he has not taken this better course, it is clear that he is not 1400* 
guilty, since no one deliberately and consciously chooses 
what is bad.^ This argument is, however, fallacious, for it 
often becomes clear after the event how the action could 
have been done better, though before the event this was far 
from clear. 

16. Another line is, when a contemplated action is incon- 
sistent with any past action, to examine them both together.* 5 
Thus, when the people of Elea asked Xenophanes if they 
should or should not sacrifice to Leucothea and mourn for 
her, he advised them not to mourn for her if they thought 
her a goddess, and not to sacrifice to her if they thought 
her a mortal woman. ° 

27 Another line is to make previous mistakes the grounds 

of accusation or defence. Thus, in the Medea " of Carcinus 

the accusers allege that Medea has slain her children ; * at 10 

all events ', they say, ' they are not to be seen ' — Medea 

having made the mistake of sending her children away. In 

defence she argues that it is not her children, but Jason, 

whom she would have slain ; for it would have been a 

mistake on her part not to do this if she had done the other. 

This special line of argument for enthymeme forms the 15 

whole of the Art of Rhetoric in use before TheodorusJ 

' Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Ati., Pt. ii, pp. 216-17. 

' i. e. better suited to effect the evil purpose with which he is charged. 

' i. e. bad meajis to effect his purpose. 

^ Comma after ncrrpnyufvois, not after «/i(i. 

* Diels, Vors.', i, p. 44 (Xenophanes). 

« Cp. Nauck^ p. 798. 

' But cp. Spengel, avpayayq rtxvcov, pp. I02, 103. 


28. Another line is to draw meanings from names. 
Sophocles, for instance, says, 

O steel in heart as thou art steel in name.^ 

This line of argument is common in praises of the gods. 
Thus, too, Conon called Thrasybulus rash in counsel. And 
Herodicus said of Thrasyniachus, ' You are always bold in 
^o battle' \' oi Polus, 'you are always a coW \ and of the 
legislator Draco that his laws were those not of a human 
being but of a dragon^ so savage were they. And, in 
Euripides, Hecuba says of Aphrodite, 

Her name and Folly's {dcppoavi'Tjs;) rightly begin alike,^ 
and Chaeremon writes 
Pentheus — a name foreshadowing grief (nipdos) to come.^ 

25 The Refutative Enthymeme has a greater reputation than 
the Demonstrative, because within a small space it works out 
two opposing arguments, and arguments put side by side are 
clearer to the audience. But of all syllogisms, whether refuta- 
tive or demonstrative, those are most applauded of which we 

30 foresee the conclusions from the beginning, so long as they 
are not obvious at first sight — for part of the pleasure we feel 
is at our own intelligent anticipation ; or those which we 
follow well enough to see the point of them as soon as the 
last word has been uttered. 

Besides genuine syllogisms, there may be syllogisms that 24 
35 look genuine but are not ; and since an enthymeme is 
merely a syllogism of a particular kind, it follows that, 
besides genuine enthymemes, there may be those that look 
genuine but are not. 

I. Among the lines of argument that form the Spurious 
1401* Enthymeme the first is that which arises from the particular 
words employed. 

(a) One variety of this is when — as in dialectic, with- 
out having gone through any reasoning process, we 
make a final statement as if it were the conclusion of such 
a process, ' Therefore so-and-so is not true ', ' Therefore 

* Soph, fragm. 597, N.'^ : the construction of o-jS/j^w is made clear by 
the scholiast (Rabe, p. 146), who gives the context of the line. 

' Euripides, Troades, 990, ^ Chaeremon, fragm. 4, N.*, p. 783. 

BOOK II. 24 1401" 

also so-and-so must be true ' — so too in rhetoric ^ a com- 
pact and antithetical utterance passes for an enthymeme, 5 
such language being the proper province of enthymeme, 
so that it is seemingly the form of wording here that 
causes the illusion mentioned. In order to produce the effect 
of genuine reasoning by our form of wording it is useful 
to summarize the results of a number of previous reason- 
ings : as 'some he saved — others he avenged — the Greeks 
he freed '.^ Each of these statements has been previously 10 
proved from other facts ; but the mere collocation of them 
gives the impression of establishing some fresh conclusion. 

[b) Another variety is based on the use of similar words 
for different things ; e. g. the argument that the mouse 
must be a noble creature, since it gives its name to the 
most august of all religious rites — for such the Mysteries 15 
are.^ Or one may introduce, into a eulogy of the dog, the 
dog-star ; or Pan, because Pindar said : 

O thou blessed one ! 

Thou whom they of Olympus call 

The hound of manifold shape 

That follows the Mother of Heaven : * 

or we may argue that, because there is much disgrace in 
there not being a dog about, there is honour in being a dog.^ 
Or that Hermes is readier than any other god to go 20 
shares, since we never say ' shares all round ' except of him.^ 
Or that speech '^ is a very excellent thing, since good men 
are not said to be worth money but to be worthy of 
esteem ^ — the phrase ' worthy of esteem ' also having the 
meaning of ' worth speech '. 

2, Another line is to assert of the whole what is true of 
the parts, or of the parts what is true of the whole. A 
whole and its parts are supposed to be identical, though 35 

* Lit. 'in the case of enthyraemes': i.e. 'in the sphere of speech 
which ought to produce enthymemes *, i. e. rhetoric ){ dialectic. Bad 
dialectic and bad rhetoric are here in question. 

'^ 1 Socrates, Evagoras, 65-9. 

' Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Att., Pt. ii, p. 228 (Polycrates). 

* Pindar, fragin. 96, Bergk'. ' viz. a dog-philosopher, a Cynic. 
' Alluding to the proverb Kotco? 'Ep/n^f, 'Hermes is common', 

* Shares in your luck ! ' 

^ The same Greek word (Xoyoi) is here used for ' speech ' and 
' esteem ' : hence what follows. 


often they are not. You have therefore to adopt whichever 
of these two lines better suits your purpose. That is how 
Euthydemus argues : e. g. that any one knows that there is 
a trireme in the Peiraeus, since he knows the separate 
details that make up this statement.^ There is also the 
argument that one who knows the letters knows the whole 
word, since the word is the same thing as the letters which 

30 compose it ; or that, if a double portion of a certain thing 
is harmful to health, then a single portion must not be 
called wholesome, since it is absurd that two good things 
should make one bad thing. Put thus, the enthymeme is 
refutative ; put as follows, demonstrative : ' For one good 
thing cannot be made up of two bad things.' The whole 
line of argument is fallacious. Again, there is Polycrates' 
saying that Thrasybulus put down thirty tyrants, where the 
speaker adds them up one by one.^ Or the argument in 

?5 the Orestes of Theodectes, where the argument is from part 
to whole : 

'Tis right that she who slays her lord should die.^ 

* It is right, too, that the son should avenge his father. Very 
1401'' good : these two things are what Orestes has done.' * Still, 
perhaps the two things, once they are put together, do not 
form a right act. The fallacy might also be said to be due 
to omission, since the speaker fails to say by whose hand a 
husband-slayer should die. 

3. Another line is the use of indignant language, whether 
to support your own case or to overthrow your opponent's. 
6 We do this when we paint a highly-coloured picture o( the 
situation without having proved the facts of it : if the 
defendant does so, he produces an impression of his 
innocence ; and if the prosecutor goes into a passion, he 
produces an iitipression of the defendant's guilt. Here there 
is no genuine enthymeme : the hearer infers guilt or 

^ For this ' argument of Euthydemus ', see Cope's Commentary, ii, 
pp. 307, 308. 

2 Baiter- Sauppe, Or. Att., Pt. ii, p. 221 (Polycrates). Thirty 
separate tyrants are suggested by 'thirty tyrants', as contrasted 
with 'The Thirty Tyrants' (= one single tyranny). 

* Theodectes, fragm. 5, N.'^, p. 803. * Retaining ■nfnpnKiai. 

BOOK II. 24 1401^ 

innocence, but no proof is given, and tiie inference is 
fallacious accordingly. 

4. Another line is to. use a * Sign ', or single instance, as 
certain evidence ; which, again, yields no valid proof. Thus, 

it might be said that lovers are useful to their countries, ,0 
since the love of Harmodius and Aristogeiton caused the 
downfall of the tyrant Hipparchus.^ Or, again, that 
Dionysius is a thief, since he is a vicious man — there is, of 
course, no valid proof here ; not every vicious man is a 
thief, though every thief is a vicious man. 

5. Another line represents the accidental as essential. An 
instance is what Poly crates says of the mice, that they 15 
'came to the rescue' because they gnawed through the 
bowstrings.^ Or it might be maintained that an invitation 
to dinner is a great honour, for it was because he was not 
invited that Achilles was ' angered ' with the Greeks at 
Tenedos.-^ As a fact, what angered him was the insult 
involved ; it was a mere accident that this was the particular 
form that the insult took. 

6. Another is the argument from consequence. In the 
Alexander, for instance, it is argued that Paris must have 20 
had a lofty disposition, since he despised society and lived 
by himself on Mount Ida : because lofty people do this kind 
of thing, therefore Paris too, we are to suppose, had a lofty 
soul* Or, if a man dresses fashionably and roams around 
at night, he is a rake, since that is the way rakes behave. 
Another similar argument points out that beggars sing and 25 
dance in temples, and that exiles can live wherever they 
please, and that such privileges are at the disposal of those 
we account happy; and therefore every one might be 
regarded as happy if only he has those privileges. What 
matters, however, is the circumstances under which the 
privileges are enjoyed. Hence this line too falls under the 
head of fallacies by omission. 

7. Another line consists in representing as causes things 30 
which are not causes, on the ground that they happened 

' Cp. Plato, Symposuim, 182 B, c. 

^ Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Att., Pt. ii, pp. 221, 222 (Polycrates). 

•' Sophocles, 'Ap^fitcoi/ cruXXo-yor, Nauck^, p. 161. ^ B -s., pp. 222, 223. 


along with or before the event in question. They assume 
that, because B happens after A, it happens because of 
A. Politicians are especially fond of taking this line. Thus 
Demades said that the policy of Demosthenes was the 
cause of all the mischief, ' for after it the war occurred '} 

8. Another line consists in leaving out any mention of 
35 time and circumstances. E. g. the argument that Paris 

was justified in taking Helen, since her father left her free 
to choose : here the freedom was presumably not perpetual ; 
it could only refer to her first choice, beyond which her 
1402^ father's authority could not go.^ Or again, one might say 
that to strike a free man is an act of wanton outrage ; but it 
is not so in every case — only when it is unprovoked. 

9. Again, a spurious syllogism may, as in ' eristical ' dis- 
cussions, be based on the confusion of the absolute with 
that which is not absolute but particular. As, in dialectic, 

5 for instance, it may be argued that what-is-not is, on the 
ground that what-is-not is what-is-not ; or that the unknown 
can be known, on the ground that it can be known to be 
unknown : so also in rhetoric a spurious enthymeme may 
be based on the confusion of some particular probability 
with absolute probability. Now no particular probability 
is universally probable : as Agathon says, 

10 One might perchance say this was probable — 

That things improbable oft will hap to men.^ 

For what is improbable does happen, and therefore it is 
probable that improbable things will happen. Granted 
this, one might argue that ' what is improbable is probable '. 
But this is not true absolutely. As, in eristic, the imposture 
15 comes from not adding any clause specifying relationship or 
reference or manner ; so here it arises because the probability 
in question is not general but specific. It is of this line of 
argument that Corax's Art of Rhetoric is composed. 
If the accused is not open to the charge — for instance if a 
weakling be tried for violent assault — the defence is that 

* B.-s., p. 315 (Demades): cp. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, The 
Three Literary Letters, pp. 80, 81, 166, 167. 
" Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Att , Pt. ii, p. 223 (Polycrates). 
^ Agathon, fragm. 9, N.", p. 765. 


BOOK II. 24 1402 

he was not likely to do such a thing. But if he is open to 
the charge — i.e. if he is a strong man— the defence is still 
that he was not likely to do such a thing, since he could be 20 
sure that people would think he was likely to do it. And 
so with any other charge : the accused must be either open 
or not open to it : there is in either case an appearance of 
probable innocence, but whereas in the latter case the 
probability is genuine, in the former it can only be asserted 
in the special sense mentioned.^ This sort of argument 
illustrates what is meant by making the worse argument 
seem the better. Hence people were right in objecting to 
the training Protagoras undertook to give them.^ It was 25 
a fraud ; the probability it handled was not genuine but 
spurious, and has a place in no art except Rhetoric^ and 

25 Enthymemes, genuine and apparent, have now been 
described ; the next subject is their Refutation. 3° 

An argument may be refuted either by a counter- 
syllogism or by bringing an objection. It is clear that 
counter-syllogisms can be built up from the same lines 
of arguments as the original syllogisms : for the materials 
of syllogisms are the ordinary opinions of men, and such 
opinions often contradict each other. Objections, as appears 
in the Topics,'^ may be raised in four ways— either by directly 35 
attacking your opponent's own statement, or by putting 
forward another statement like it, or by putting forward 
a statement contrary to it, or by quoting previous 

I. By ' attacking your opponent's own statement ' I mean, 
for instance, this : if his enthymeme should assert that 
love is always good, the objection can be brought in two 1402^ 
ways, either by making the general statement that * all 

' &n\m seems to mean ' in the broad simple sense as opposed to 
special unusual senses' (such as that in Agathon's proposition). 

' Cp. Plato, Proiag., 319 a. 

' i. e. in the perverted form of rhetoric that is related to genuine 
rhetoric as eristic (and other sophistic) is related to genuine dialectic. 
Aristotle is hampered throughout by having no special name for this 
perverted rhetoric, as he has noted at the end of the opening chapter 
of his treatise (iSSS** 17-21 above). 

* Cp. Topics, viii. 10, and Anal. Pr., ii. 26. 


want is an evil ', or by making the particular one that 
there would be no talk of ' Caunian love ' ^ if there were not 
evil loves as well as good ones. 

2. An objection 'from a contrary statement' is raised 
when, for instance, the opponent's enthymeme having 

5 concluded that a good man does good to all his friends, 
you object, ' That proves nothing, for a bad man does not do 
evil to all his friends '. 

3. An example of an objection ' from a like statement ' 
is, the enthymeme having shown that ill-used men always 
hate their ill-users, to reply, ' That proves nothing, for well- 
used men do not always love those who used them well '. 

4. The ' decisions ' mentioned are those proceeding from 
well-known men ; for instance, if the enthymeme employed 

10 has concluded that ' Some allowance ought to be made for 
drunken offenders, since they did not know what they were 
doing ', the objection will be, ' Pittacus, then, deserves no 
approval, or he would not have prescribed specially severe 
penalties for offences due to drunkenness '. 

Enthymemes are based upon one or other of four kinds 
of alleged fact : (i) Probabilities, (2) Examples, (3) Infallible 
Signs, (4) Ordinary Signs. ^ (1) Enthymemes based upon 

15 Probabilities are those which argue from what is, or is 
supposed to be, usually true. (2) Enthymemes based upon 
Example are those which proceed by induction ^ from one 
or more similar cases, arrive at a general proposition, and 
then argue deductively to a particular inference. (3) 
Enthymemes based upon Infallible Signs are those which 
argue from the inevitable and invariable. (4) Enthymemes 

20 based upon ordinary Signs are those which argue from 
some universal or particular proposition, true or false. 

Now (i) as a Probability is that which happens usually 
but not always, Enthymemes founded upon Probabilities 
can, it is clear, always be refuted by raising some objection. 
The refutation is not always genuine : it may be spurious : 
for it consists in showing not that your opponent's premiss 

25 is not probable, but only in showing that it is not inevitably 

' The incestuous love of Byblis for her brother Caunus. 
^ Fallible signs. ' Retaining 5i' ('nayoiytj?. 

BOOK II. 25 1402" 

true. Hence it is always in defence rather than in accusa- 
tion that it is possible to gain an advantage by using this 
fallacy. For the accuser uses probabilities to prove his case : 
and to refute a conclusion as improbable is not the same 
thing as to refute it as not inevitable. Any argument based 
upon what usually happens is always open to objection: 
otherwise it would not be a probability ^ but an invariable 
and necessary truth. But the judges think, if the refutation 30 
takes this form, either that the accuser's case is not 
probable or that they must not decide it ; which, as we 
said, is a false piece of reasoning. For they ought to decide 
by considering not merely what must be true but also 
what is likely to be true: this is, indeed, the meaning of 
'giving a verdict in accordance with one's honest opinion'. 
Therefore it is not enough for the defendant to refute 
the accusation by proving that the charge is not bound 
to be true : he must do so by showing that it is not likely 35 
to be true. For this purpose his objection must state what 
is more usually true than the statement attacked. It may 
do so in either of two ways : either in respect of frequency 
or in respect of exactness. It will be most convincing if 
it does so in both respects ; for if the thing in question both 
happens oftener as we represent it and happens more as we 1403* 
represent it, the probability is particularly great. ^ 

(2) Fallible Signs, and Enthymemes based upon them, 
can be refuted even if the facts are correct, as was said 
at the outset.^ For we have shown in the Analytics'^ that 
no Fallible Sign can form part of a valid logical proof. 

(3) Enthymemes depending on examples may be refuted 5 
in the same way as probabilities. If we have a^ negative 
instance, the argument is refuted, in so far as it is proved 
not inevitable, even though the positive examples are more 
similar and more frequent. And if the positive examples 
are more numerous and more frequent, we must contend 
that the present case is dissimilar, or that its conditions are 
dissimilar, or that it is different in some way or other. 

' Not inserting if tVl to iro\v Kai. 

* ra wrongly repeated in Roemer's text. ' i, c. 2, 1357'' 13, 14. 

* Anal. Pr., ii. 27. ' Not inserting tv. 


lo (4) It will be impossible to refute Infallible Signs, and 
Enthymemes resting on them, by showing in any way that 
they do not form a valid logical proof: this, too, we see 
from the Analytics} All we can do is to show that the 
fact alleged does not exist. If there is no doubt that it 

15 does, and that it is an Infallible Sign, refutation now 
becomes impossible : for this is equivalent to a demonstra- 
tion which is clear in every respect. 

Amplification and Depreciation are not an element ^ of 26 
enthymeme. By ' an element ^ of enthymeme ' I mean the 
same thing as ' a line of enthymematic argument ' — a general 
class embracing a large number of particular kinds of enthy- 
meme. Amplification and Depreciation are one kind of 

30 enthymeme, viz. the kind used to show that a thing is great or 
small ; just as there are other kinds used to show that a thing 
is good or bad, just or unjust, and anything else of the sort. 
All these things are the subject-matter of syllogisms and 
enthymemes ; none of these is the line of argument of an 
enthymeme ; no more, therefore, are Amplification and 

35 Nor are Refutative Enthymemes a different species from 
Constructive. For it is clear that refutation consists either 
in offering positive proof or in raising an objection. In the 
first case we prove the opposite of our adversary's state- 
ments. Thus, if he shows that a thing has happened, we 
show that it has not ; if he shows that it has not happened, 
we show that it has. This, then, could not be the dis- 

30 tinction if there were one, since the same means are 
employed by both parties, enthymemes being adduced to 
show that the fact is or is not so-and-so. An objection, on 
the other hand, is not an enthymeme at all, but, as was 
said in the Topics? it consists in stating some accepted 
opinion from which it will be clear that our opponent has 
not reasoned correctly or has made a false assumption. 
Three points must be studied in making a speech ; and we 

35 have now completed the account of (i) Examples, Maxims, 

* Anal. Pr., ii. 27. 

* i.e. an elementary class, a primary type : cp. 1396'' 21. 
' Cp. Top., viii. 10. 

BOOK II. 26 1403* 

Enthymemes, and in general the //w«^^/-element — the way 

to invent and refute arguments. We have next to discuss 1402,^ 

(2) Style,^ and (3) Arrangement. 


I In making a speech one must study three points : first, 
the means of producing persuasion ; second, the style, or 
language, to be used ; third, the proper arrangement of the 
various parts of the speech. We have already specified the 
sources of persuasion. We have shown that these are three 
in number ; ^ what they are ; and why there are only these 10 
three : for we have shown that persuasion must in every 
case be effected either (i) by working on the emotions of 
the judges themselves, (2) by giving them the right impres- 
sion of the speakers' character, or (3) by proving the truth 
of the statements made. 

Enthymemes also have been described, and the sources 
from which they should be derived ; there being both 
special and general lines of argument for enthymemes.^ 

Our next subject will be the style of expression. 15 
For it is not enough to know w^ai we ought to say ; we 
must also say it as we ought ; much help is thus 
afforded towards producing the right impression of a 
speech. The first question to receive attention was naturally 
the one that comes first naturally — how persuasion can be 
produced from the facts themselves. The second is how to 
set these facts out in language. A third would be the so 
proper method of delivery ; this is a thing that affects the 
success of a speech greatly ; but hitherto the subject has 
been neglected. Indeed, it was long before it found a way 
into the arts of tragic drama and epic recitation : at first 
poets acted * their tragedies themselves. It is plain that 
delivery has just as much to do with oratory as with poetry. 25 
(In connexion with poetry, it has been studied by Glaucon 

' Xe|ic : to be translated ' language ', ' speech ', * diction ', ' style ', 
'expression', 'wording', &c., according to the shade of meaning con- 
veyed in each context. Cp. the definition of X«^js given in the Poetics, 
c. 6, 1 450'' 13, 14. 

* i, c. 2. ^ i and ii. * Or, * delivered '. 


of Teos among others.) It is, essentially, a matter of the 
right management of the voice to express the various 
emotions — of speaking loudly, softly, or between the two ; 
30 of high, low, or intermediate pitch ; of the various rhythms 
that suit various subjects. These are the three things — 
volume of sound, modulation of pitch, and rhythm — that a 
speaker bears in mind. It is those who do bear them in 
mind who usually win prizes in the dramatic contests ; and 
just as in drama the actors now count for more than the 
poets, so it is in the contests of public life, owing to the 
35 defects of our political institutions. No systematic treatise 
upon the rules of delivery has yet been composed ; indeed, 
even the study of language ^ made no progress till late in 
the day. Besides, delivery is — very properly — not regarded 
1404* as an elevated subject of inquiry.'^ Still, the whole business 
of rhetoric being concerned with appearances, we must pay 
attention to the subject of delivery, unworthy though it is, 
because we cannot do without it. The right thing in speak- 
ing really is that we should be satisfied not to annoy our 
hearers, without trying to delight them : we ought in fair- 
5 ness to fight our case with no help beyond the bare facts : 
nothing, therefore, should matter except the proof of those 
facts. Still, as has been already said, other things affect 
the result considerably, owing to the defects of our hearers.^ 
The arts of language cannot help having a small but real 
importance, whatever it is we have to expound to others: 
10 the way in which a thing is said does affect its intelligibility. 
Not, however, so much importance as people think. AH 
such arts are fanciful and meant to charm the hearer. 
Nobody uses fine language when teaching geometry. 

When the principles of delivery have been worked out, 
they will produce the same effect as on the stage. But only 

^ From this and other indications it would seem that Aristotle 
regards delivery as a subordinate part of Xe'^tr, ' expression '. The 
classification of vTrd^pio-ir under X«'|ij is helped by the relation of the 
latter to Xiytiv. Xt^n is 'a mode of speaking'. 

^ Or, ' is thought to be vulgar, when viewed from a lofty standpoint ', 
'on any noble view'. 

' i, c. I. The average member of a large audience is regarded as a 
' sorry creature ' (fj.oxdrii)6i), carried away by his feelings and paying little 
heed to reason. 


BOOK III. I 1404' 

very slight attempts to deal with them have been made and 
by a few people, as by Thrasymachus in his ' Appeals to 
Pity '.^ Dramatic ability is a natural gift, and can hardly be 15 
systematically taught. The principles of good diction can 
be so taught, and therefore we have men of ability in this 
direction too, who win prizes in their turn, as well as those 
speakers who excel in delivery — speeches of the written or 
literary kind owe more of their effect to their diction than 
to their thought. 

It was naturally the poets who first set the movement ^ 20 
going ; for words represent things, and they had also 
the human voice at their disposal, which of all our 
organs can best represent other things. Thus the arts of 
recitation and acting were formed, and others as well. 
Now it was because poets seemed to win fame through 
their fine language when their thoughts were simple enough, 
that the language of oratorical prose at first took a poetical 25 
colour, e.g. that of Gorgias/* Even now most uneducated 
people think that poetical language makes the finest 
discourses. That is not true: the language of prose is 
distinct from that of poetry. This is shown by the state of 
things to-day, when even the language of tragedy has altered 
its character. Just as iambics were adopted, instead of 30 
tetrameters, because they are the most prose-like* of all 
metres, so tragedy has given up all those words, not used in 
oi'dinary talk, which decorated the early drama and are 
still used by the writers of hexameter poems. It is there- 
fore ridiculous to imitate a poetical manner which the 35 
poets themselves have dropped ; and it is now plain that we 
have not to treat in detail the whole question of style, but 
may confine ourselves to that part of it which concerns our 
present subject, rhetoric. The other — the poetical— part 
of it has been discussed in the treatise on the Art of Poetry.^ 

I We may, then, start from the observations there made, 1404 

^ Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Att., Pt. ii, p. 164; Spengel, Artium Scriptores, 
pp. 93 ff. 

"^ i. e. the movement towards the conscious cultivation of beautiful 

' Cp. Sp>engel, Artium Scriptores, pp. 69 fif. 

* Cp. Xoyov, 1404* 28. Or, ' speech-like'. ' Poetics, cc 20-2. 

64610 L 



including the definition of style. Style to be good must be 
clear, as is proved by the fact that speech which fails to 
convey a plain meaning will fail to do just what speech has 
to do. It must also be appropriate, avoiding both meanness 
and undue elevation ; poetical language is certainly free 

5 from meanness, but it is not appropriate to prose,^ Clearness 
is secured by using the words (nouns and verbs alike) that 
are current and ordinary. Freedom from meanness, and 
positive adornment too, are secured by using the other 
words mentioned in the Ari of Poetry? Such variation 
from what is usual makes the language appear more 
stately. People do not feel towards strangers as they do 

10 towards their own countrymen, and the same thing is true 
of their feeling for language. It is therefore well to give to 
everyday speech an unfamiliar air : people like what strikes 
them, and are struck by what is out of the way. In verse 
such effects are common, and there they are fitting : the 
persons and things there spoken of are comparatively remote 
from ordinary life. In prose passages they are far less often 

15 fitting because the subject-matter is less exalted. Even 
in poetry, it is not quite appropriate that fine language 
should be used by a slave or a very young man, or about 
very trivial subjects : even in poetry the style, to be ap- 
propriate, must sometimes be toned down, though at other 
times heightened. We can now see that a writer must 
disguise his art and give the impression of speaking 
naturally and not artificially. Naturalness is persuasive, 

30 artificiality is the contrary ; for our hearers are prejudiced 
and think we have some design against them, as if we 
were mixing their wines for them. It is like the difference 
between the quality of Theodorus' voice and the voices 
of all other actors : his really seems to be that of the 
character who is speaking, theirs do not. We can hide our 

^ This last clause explains the cautious addition just made to the defi- 
nition as given in the Poetics. Poetry, it is pointed out, often heightens 
expression in a way which would seem pretentious and intolerable in 
prose ; cp. the examples from Euripides and Dionysius the Brazen 
in 1405* 28-34. Still, in the main, the same definition and methods 
apply to both poetical and prose style. 

* Poetics, cc. 21, 22. 



purpose successfully by taking the single words of our 
composition from the speech of ordinary life. This is 
done in poetry by Euripides, who was the first to show the 25 
way to his successors.^ 

Language is composed of nouns and verbs. Nouns are 
of the various kinds considered in the treatise on Poetry.'^ 
Strange words, compound words, and invented words must be 
used sparingly and on few occasions : on what occasions we 
shall state later.^ The reason for this restriction has been 30 
already indicated : they depart from what is suitable, in 
the direction of excess. In the language of prose, besides 
the regular and proper terms for things, metaphorical terms 
only can be used with advantage. This we gather from the 
fact that these two classes of terms, the proper or regular 
and the metaphorical — these and no others — are used by 
everybody in conversation. We can now sec that a good 35 
writer can produce a style that is distinguished with- 
out being obtrusive, and is at the same time clear, thus 
satisfying our definition * of good oratorical prose. Words of 
ambiguous meaning^ are chiefly useful to enable the sophist 
to mislead his hearers. Synonyms are useful to the 
poet, by which I mean words whose ordinary meaning is the 
same, e.g. Tropevfadai. {advancing) and /BabtCftv (proceeding) ; 1405^ 
these two are ordinary words and have the same meaning. 

In the Arf of Poetry^ as we have already said, will be 
found definitions of these kinds of words ; a classification 
of Metaphors ; and mention of the fact that metaphor is of 
great value both in poetry and in prose. Prose-writers 5 
must, however, pay specially careful attention to metaphor, 
because their other resources are scantier than those of poets. 
Metaphor, moreover, gives style clearness, charm, and 
distinction as nothing else can : and it is not a thing whose 
use can be taught by one man to another. Metaphors, like 
epithets, must be fitting, which means that they must fairly 10 
correspond to the thing signified : failing this, their in- 
appropriateness will be conspicuous : the want of harmony 

* Cp. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, On Literary Composition, p. 78 n. 

* Poetics, c. 21, ' iii, cc. 3, 7. * iii, c. 2 ad init. 

* Homonyms, in the Greek. * Cp. Poetics, cc. 21, 22. 

L a 


between two things is emphasized by their being placed 
side by side. It is like having to ask ourselves what dress 
will suit an old man ; certainly not the crimson cloak that 
suits a young man. And if you wish to pay a compliment, 

15 you must take your metaphor from something better in the 
same line; if to disparage, from something worse. To 
illustrate my meaning : since opposites are in the same 
class, you do what I have suggested if you say that a man 
who begs ' prays ', and a man who prays ' begs ' ; for 
praying and begging are both varieties of asking. So 

20 Iphicrates called CalHas a ' mendicant priest ' instead of a 
' torch- bearer ', and Callias replied that Iphicrates must be 
uninitiated or he would have called him not a ' mendicant 
priest ' but a ' torch-bearer '. Both are religious titles, but 
one is honourable and the other is not. Again, somebody 
calls actors ' hangers-on of Dionysus ', but they call them- 
selves ' artists ' : each of these terms is a metaphor, the one 

25 intended to throw dirt at the actor, the other to dignify 
him. And pirates now call themselves ' purveyors '. We 
can thus call a crime a mistake, or a mistake a crime. We 
can say that a thief ' took ' a thing, or that he ' plundered ' 
his victim. An expression like that of Euripides' Telephus, 

King of the oar, on Mysia's coast he landed,^ 

30 is inappropriate ; the word ' king ' goes beyond the dignity 
of the subject, and so the art is not concealed. A 
metaphor may be amiss because the very syllables of the 
words conveying it fail to indicate sweetness of vocal 
utterance. Thus Dionysius the Brazen in his elegies calls 
poetry * Calliope's screech '.^ Poetry and screeching are 
both, to be sure, vocal utterances. But the metaphor is 
bad, because the sounds of ' screeching ', unlike those of 
poetiy, are discordant and unmeaning.^ Further, in using 
metaphors to give names to nameless things, we must draw 

35 them not from remote but from kindred and similar things, 

' Euripides, Telephus, N.'^, p. 583. 
"^ Dionysius Chalcus, fragm. 7, Bergk*, vol. ii, p. 264. 
' The syllables of K\mvyr] are, it seems, regarded as ugly and non- 

BOOK III. 2 1405* 

so that the kinship is clearly perceived as soon as the words 
are said. Thus in the celebrated riddle 

I marked how a man glued bronze with fire to another 1405^ 
man's body,^ 

the process is nameless ; but both it and gluing are a 
kind of application, and that is why the application of 
the cupping-glass is here called a ' gluing '. Good riddles 
do, in general, provide us with satisfactory metaphors: 
for metaphors imply riddles, and therefore a good riddle can 5 
furnish a good metaphor. Further, the materials of meta- 
phors must be beautiful ; and the beauty, like the ugliness, 
of all words may, as Licymnius says, lie in their sound or in 
their meaning.^ Further, there is a third consideration — one 
that upsets the fallacious argument of the sophist Bryson, 
that there is no such thing as foul language, because 
in whatever words you put a given thing your meaning 10 
is the same. This is untrue. One term may describe 
a thing more truly than another, may be more like it, 
and set it more intimately before our eyes. Besides, two 
different words will represent a thing in two different lights; 
so on this ground also one term must be held fairer or 
fouler than another. For both of two terms will indicate 15 
what is fair, or what is foul, but not simply their fairness 
or their foulness, or if so, at any rate not in an equal degree. 
The materials of metaphor must be beautiful to the ear, to 
the understanding, to the eye or some other physical sense. 
It is better, for instance, to say * rosy-fingered morn ',^ than 
' crimson-fingered ' or, worse still, ' red-fingered morn '. 20 
The epithets that we apply, too, may have a bad and ugly 
aspect, as when Orestes is called a ' mother-slayer ' ; or a 
better one, as when he is called his ' father's avenger '.* 
Simonides, when the victor in the mule-race offered him 
a small fee, refused to write him an ode, because, he said, 
it was so unpleasant to write odes to half-asses : but on 35 
receiving an adequate fee, he wrote 

* Cleobulina, fragm. i, Bergk*, vol. ii, p. 62. Cp. Demetrius, On 
Style, p. 231. 

^ Cp. Blass, Att. Bereds?, i, p. 86. 

* Jliad, i. 477, &c. * Euripides, Orestes, 1587, 1588. 


Hail to you, daughters of storm-footed steeds,' 

though of course they were daughters of asses too. The 
same effect is attained by the use of diminutives, which 
make a bad thing less bad and a good thing less good. 
30 Take, for instance, the banter of Aristophanes in the 
Babylonians ^ where he uses ' goldlet ' for ' gold ', ' cloaklet ' 
for ' cloak ', ' scofflet ' for ' scoff', and ' plaguelet '. But alike 
in using epithets and in using diminutives we must be wary 
and must observe the mean. 

Bad taste in language may take any of four forms : — 3 
35 (1) The misuse of compound words. Lycophron, for in- 
stance, talks of the ' many-visaged heaven ' above the ''giant- 
crested earth ', and a^ain the ' strait-pathed shore ' ; ^ and 
1406^ Gorgias of the ' pauper-poet flatterer ' and ' oath-breaking and 
over- oath-keeping'.'^ Alcidamas uses such expressions as 
' the soul filling with rage and face htcommgJiame-Jiushed\ 
and *he thought their enthusiasm would be issue-fraught' 
and ' issue-fraught he made the persuasion of his words ', and 
6 * sombre-hued is the floor of the sea '.^ The way all these 
words are compounded makes them, we feel, fit for verse 
only." This, then, is one form in which bad taste is shown. 

(2) Another is the employment of strange words. For 
instance, Lycophron talks of ' the prodigious Xerxes ' and 
' spoliative Sciron ' ; ' Alcidamas of ' a toy for poetry ' and 

10 * the witlessness of nature ', and says ' ivhetted with the 
unmitigated temper of his spirit '.^ 

(3) A third form is the use of long, unseasonable, or 
frequent epithets. It is appropriate enough for a poet to 
talk of ' white milk ',^ but in prose such epithets are some- 
times lacking in appropriateness or, when spread too thickly, 
plainly reveal the author turning his prose into poetry. 

* Simonides, fragm. 7, Bergk*, vol. iii, p. 390. 
"^ Aristophanes, Babylonians, Meineke, ii. 982. 
' Cp. Blass, Att. Bereds?^ ii, p. 364. 

* Baiter-Sauppe, op. cit., p. 131 (Gorgias, fragm. vii. 2). 
" Ibid., p. 156 (Alcidamas). 

' The meaning seems to be that such compounds have a dithyrambic 
cast ; cp. oTav 8i6vpaiiSa>8r)t <TvvTt6rj t) SiTrXojcrjf rov ocd/ioror, Demetrius, 
On Style, pp. 125, 233 (referring to this chapter), and also 1406'^ 2 infra. 

'' Blass, loc. cit. * Baiter-Sauppe, op. cit., p. 156 (Alcidamas). 

* e. g. Iliad, iv. 434. 


BOOK III. 3 1406' 

Of course we must use some epithets, since they lift our 
style above the usual level and give it an air of distinction. '5 
But we must aim at the due mean, or the result will be 
worse than if we took no trouble at all ; we shall get some- 
thing actually bad instead of something merely not good. 
That is why the epithets of Alcidamas seem so tasteless ; 
he does not use them as the seasoning of the meat, but as 
the meat itself, so numerous and swollen and aggressive^ 
are they. For instance, he does not say * sweat ', but * the 20 
moist sweat'; not *to the Isthmian games', but 'to the 
world-coficourse of the Isthmian games ' ; not ' laws ', but 
' the laws thai are monarchs of states ' ; not ' at a run ', but 

* his heart impelling him to speed of foot ' ; not ' a school 
of the Muses', but 'Natures school of the Muses had 
he inherited ' ; and so 'frowning care of heart ', and 35 
' achiever ' not of ' popularity ' but of ' universal popularity ', 
and 'dispenser of pleasure to his audience', and 'he 
concealed it ' not ' with boughs ' but ' with boughs of the 
forest trees ', and * he clothed ' not ' his body ' but ' his 
body's nakedness', and 'his soul's desire was counter- zo 
imitative' (this is at one and the same time a compound 
and an epithet, so that it seems a poet's effort), and 

• so extravagant the excess of his wickedness '.^ We thus 
see how the inappropriateness of such poetical language 
imports absurdity and tastelessness into speeches, as well 
as the obscurity that comes from all this verbosity — for 
when the sense is plain, you only obscure and spoil its 35 
clearness by piling up words. 

The ordinary use of compound words is where there is 
no term for a thing and some compound can be easily 
formed, like 'pastime' (xpororpi/Seti') ; but if this is much 
done, the prose character disappears entirely. We now see 1406 
why the language of compounds is just the thing for 
writers of dithyrambs, who love sonorous noises ; strange 
words for writers of epic poetry, which is a proud and 
stately affair ; and metaphor for iambic verse, the metre 
which (as has been already ^ said) is widely used to-day. 

' fVtSfjXois, with the MSS. 

^ Baiter-Sauppe, op. cit., p. 156 (Alcidamas). ' iii, c. i, 1404" 13. 


5 (4) There remains the fourth region in which bad taste 
may be shown, metaphor. Metaphors like other things 
may be inappropriate. Some are so because they are 
ridiculous ; they are indeed used by comic as well as tragic 
poets. Others are too grand and theatrical ; and these, 
if they are far-fetched, may also be obscure. For instance^ 
Gorgias talks of ' events that are green and full of sap ', 

10 and says ' foul was the deed you sowed and evil the harvest 
you reaped'.^ That is too much like poetry. Alcidamas, 
again, called philosophy ' a fortress that threatens the 
power of law', and the Odyssey 'a goodly looking-glass of 
human life ',^ and talked about ' offering no such toy to 
poetry ' : '' all these expressions fail, for the reasons given, to 

15 carry the hearer with them. The address of Gorgias to 
the swallow, when she had let her droppings fall on him 
as she flew overhead, is in the best tragic manner. He 
said, ' Nay, shame, O Philomela '. Considering her as a 
bird, you could not call her act shameful ; considering her 
as a girl, you could ; and so it was a good gibe to address 
her as what she was once and not as what she is. 

20 The Simile also is a metaphor ; the difference is but 4 
slight. When the poet says of Achilles that he 

Leapt on the foe as a lion,^ 

this is a simile ; when he says of him ' the lion leapt *, it is 
a metaphor — here, since both are courageous, he has 
transferred^ to Achilles the name of 'lion'. Similes are 
useful in prose as well as in verse ; but not often, since they 
3-; are of the nature of poetry. They are to be employed just 
as metaphors are employed, since they are really the same 
thing except for the difference mentioned. 

The following are examples of similes, Androtion said 

' Baiter-Sauppe, ofi. cii., p. 131 (Gorgias). 

' lb., p. 1 56 (Alcidamas). This metaphor apparently strikes Aristotle 
as 'far-fetched ' and incongruous, and as retiecting the surface only : it 
makes a peep-show of the great epic of human life. It would 
probably obscure his point to render ' a fair mirror of the life of 
man ', since ' mirror ' is now one of the most familiar and edge-worn 
of metaphors. 

' Cp. 1406*8 supra. ^ Cp. Iliad, xx. 164, Z>(>to \(av S>s. 

* fxfTffcyKai, ' transferred-by-metaphor '. 

BOOK III. 4 1406* 

of Idrieus that he was like a terrier let off the chain, that 
flies at you and bites you — Idrieus too was savage now that 
he was let out of his chains.^ Theodamas compared 30 
Archidamus to an Euxenus who could not do geometry — 
a proportional "^ simile, implying that Euxenus is an 
Archidamus who can do geometry. In Plato's Republic 
those who strip the dead are compared to curs which bite 
the stones thrown at them but do not touch the thrower ; ^ 
and there is the simile about the Athenian people, who are 
compared to a ship's captain who is strong but a little deaf; * 35 
and the one about poets' verses, which are likened to persons 
who lack beauty but possess youthful freshness — when the 
freshness has faded the charm perishes, and so with verses 
when broken up into prose/^ Pericles compared the Samians 1407^ 
to children who take their pap but go on crying ; and the 
Boeotians to holm-oaks, because they were ruining one 
another by civil wars just as one oak causes another oak's 
fall.'' Demosthenes said that the Athenian people were like 5 
sea-sick men on board ship.'' Again, Democrates compared 
the political orators to nurses who swallow the bit of food 
themselves and then smear the children's lips with the 
spittle.** Antisthenes compared the lean Cephisodotus to 
frankincense, because it was his consumption that gave one 10 
pleasure. All these ideas may be expressed either as 
similes or as metaphors ; those which succeed as metaphors 
will obviously do well also as similes, and similes, with the 
explanation omitted, will appear as metaphors. But the 
proportional metaphor' must always apply reciprocally to 
either of its co-ordinate terms. For instance, if a drinking- 15 
bowl is the shield of Dionysus, a shield may fittingly be 
called the drinking-bowl of Ares.^° 

5 Such, then, are the ingredients of which speech is 

' Baiter-Sauppe, op. cit., p. 245 (Androtion). 
"^ A ' rule-of-thrce ' simile, an 'analogical ' simile. 
^ Plato, Rep., V. 469 E. * lb., vi. 488 A. ^ Cp. ib., x. 601 B. 

® Cp. Koh^xis, Ancient Boeotians, pp. 15, 16. 
' Baiter-Sauppe, op. cit., p. 254 (Demosthenes). 
* lb., p. 320 (Democrates). 

^ i. e. metaphor or simile : fieTn(f)nfjd used as being the more general 
and inclusive term (cp. beginning of chapter). 
"* Timotheus (ap. Athen. 433 d). 


composed. The foundation of good style is correctness of 
language/ which falls under five heads, (i) First, the proper 

20 use of connecting words, and the arrangement of them in 
the natural sequence which some of them require. For 
instance, the connective /ueV (e. g. eycb fj.iv) requires the 
correlative be (e. g. 6 b(). The answering word must be 
brought in before the first has been forgotten, and not be 
widely separated from it ; nor, except in the few cases 

35 where this is appropriate, is another connective to be 
introduced before the one required. Consider the sentence, 
' But I, as soon as he told me (for Cleon had come begging 
and praying), took them along and set out.' ^ In this 
sentence many connecting words are inserted in front of the 
one required to complete the sense ; and if there is a long 
intei-val before ' set out ', the result is obscurity. One 

30 merit, then, of good style lies in the right use of connecting 
words. (2) The second lies in calling things by their own 
special names and not by vague general ones. (3) The third 
is to avoid ambiguities ; unless, indeed, you definitely desire 
to be ambiguous, as those do who have nothing to say but 
are pretending to mean something. Such people are apt to 

35 put that sort of thing into verse. Empedocles, for instance, 
by his long circumlocutions imposes on his hearers ; these 
are affected in the same way as most people are when they 
listen to diviners, whose ambiguous utterances are received 
with nods of acquiescence — 

Croesus by crossing the Halys will ruin a mighty realm.^ 

1407'' Diviners use these vague generalities about the matter in 
hand because their predictions are thus, as a rule, less 
likely to be falsified. We are more likely to be right, in 
the game of ' odd and even ', if we simply guess 'even ' or 
'odd' than if we guess at the actual number; and the 
oracle-monger is more likely to be right if he simply says 

* TO (\\r]yi(eiv, ' to use good, pure, correct Greek '. 

* Bywater {Joiir7ial of Philology^ xxxii. 119) would read t'yw \xiv for 
f -yo) h\ the apodotic particle (e. g. 6 fie . . . .) being mentally supplied 
after alrol^. Or awbiafiuv may be omitted after nnoSodrjaoixtvov, when 
the sense will be ' before the apodosis (Tropfvofirfif'. 

' Cp. Herod., i. 53, 91. 

BOOK III. 5 1407 

that a thing will happen than if he says when it will happen, 
and therefore he refuses to add a definite date. All these 5 
ambiguities have the same sort of effect,' and are to be 
avoided unless we have some such object as that mentioned. 
(4) A fourth rule is to observe Protagoras' classification of 
nouns into male, female, and inanimate ; for these dis- 
tinctions also must be correctly given. ' Upon her arrival 
she said her say and departed (^ 6' iXQwao. koX 8taAex^*^*'" 
(Sy^fTo).' (5) A fifth rule is to express plurality, fewness, and 
unity by the correct wording,^ e.g. 'Having come, they 10 
struck me (ol b' cX^on-es tTviTT6v /xe).' 

It is a general rule that a written composition should be 
easy to read and therefore easy to deliver.^ This cannot be 
so where there are many connecting words or clauses, or 
where punctuation is hard, as in the writings of Heracleitus. 
To punctuate Heracleitus is no easy task, because we often 
cannot tell whether a particular word belongs to what 
precedes or what follows it. Thus, at the outset of his 15 
treatise he says, ' Though this truth is always men under- 
stand it not ',* where it is not clear with which of the two 
clauses the word ' always ' should be joined by the punctua- 
tion. Further, the following fact leads to solecism, viz. 
that the sentence does not work out properly if you annex 
to two terms a third which does not suit them both.^ 
Thus either ' sound ' or ' colour ' will fail to work out ao 
properly with some verbs : ^ ' perceive ' will apply to both, 
' see ' will not Obscurity is also caused if, when you 
intend to insert a number of details, you do not first make 
your meaning clear; for instance, if you say, 'I meant, 
after telling him this, that, and the other thing, to set out', 
rather than something of this kind ' I meant to set out after 
telling him ; then this, that, and the other thing occurred.' 25 
6 The following suggestions will help to give your language 

' i. e. are equally destructive of clearness. 

^ i. e. to write singular, dual, and plural endings correctly. 

' Or, ' easy to understand ' : cp. 8va(PpaaTos. 

* Heracleitus, fragm. i (Diels). 
' Mr. W. D. Ross's view of the construction and meaning of this 

passage is followed in this and the next sentence. He reads r68( in 

place of raSf. 

• i. e. will be unsuitable if you have used either Ibwv or aKoiaat. 



im press! veness.^ (i) Describe a thing instead of naming it : 
do not say ' circle ', but ' that surface which extends equally 
from the middle every way '. To achieve conciseness, do the 
opposite — put the name instead of the description. When 
mentioning anything ugly or unseemly, use its name if it is 
30 the description that is ugly, and describe it if it is the name 
that is ugly. (2) Represent things with the help of meta- 
phors and epithets, being careful to avoid poetical effects. 
(3) Use plural for singular, as in poetry, where one finds 

Unto havens Achaean,^ 
though only one haven is meant, 


Here are my letter's many-leaved folds.^ 

.^5 (4) Do not bracket two words under one article, but put one 
article with each ; e. g. rf/s yvvaiKos rijs Tjiier^pas^ The 
reverse to secure conciseness ; e. g. ttjs rjyuT^pas yvvaiKos,^ 
(5) Use plenty of connecting words; conversely, to secure 
conciseness, dispense with connectives, while still preserving 
1408^ connexion ; e. g. ' having gone and spoken \'^ and ' having 
gone, I spoke ',^ respectively. (6) And the practice of 
Antimachus, too, is useful — to describe a thing by mention- 
ing attributes it does not possess ; as he does in talking 
of Teumessus — 

There is a little wind-swept knoll . . .^ 

A subject can be developed indefinitely along these lines. 

You may apply this method of treatment by negation 

5 either to good or to bad qualities, according to which your 

subject requires. It is from this source that the poets draw 

^ oyKoi sometimes means 'inflation', 'bombast', 'pomp*, 'grandi- 
loquence', rather than ' dignity'. Cp. Longinus, On the Sublime, iii. 
4, and Demetrius, On Style, pp. 294-5. A neutral rendering like 
' amplitude ', ' grandeur', ' impressiveness ', seems best. 

^ Fragm. Adesp. 83, Nauck*. 

^ Euripides, Iph. Taur. 727 : more literally, * here are the tablet's 
folds with many doors *. 

* ' that wife of ours '. '' ' our wife ': 

* TTcpfv^flr Kill hiaki^Qt'ii. 

'' ni>^€vdf'is duXfx^T'- [Either this form or that in note 6 will stand, 
but not TToptDdui binXe^ddi, ' having gone spoken ']. 

* Antimachus, Thebais, fragm. 2 ; Kinkel, Ep. Gr. Fr., p. 277. The 
significant part of the passage is not given in the text : it would be well 
known in Aristotle's day. 

BOOK III. 6 1408' 

expressions such as the ' stringless ' or ' lyreless ' melody, 
thus forming epithets out of negations. This device is 
popular in proportional metaphors, as when the trumpet's 
note is called ' a lyreless melody '.^ 

7 Your language will be appropriate if it expresses emo- 10 
tion and character, and if it corresponds to its subject. 
' Correspondence to subject ' means that we must neither 
speak casually about weighty matters, nor solemnly about 
trivial ones ; nor must we add ornamental epithets to 
commonplace nouns, or the effect will be comic, as in 
the works of Cleophon, who can use phrases as absurd as 15 
' O queenly fig-tree '. To express emotion, you will employ 
the language of anger in speaking of outrage ; the language 
of disgust and discreet reluctance to utter a word when 
speaking of impiety or foulness ; the language of exulta- 
tion for a tale of glory, and that of humiliation for a tale of 
pity ; and so in all other cases. 

This aptness of language is one thing that makes people 20 
believe in the truth of your story : their minds draw the 
false conclusion that you are to be trusted from the fact 
that others behave as you do when things are as you 
describe them ; and therefore they take your story to be 
true, whether it is so or not. Besides, an emotional speaker 
always makes his audience feel with him, even when there 
is nothing in his arguments ; which is why many speakers 
try to overwhelm their audience by mere noise. 25 

Furthermore, this way of proving your story by dis- 
playing these signs of its genuineness expresses your 
personal character.^ Each class of men, each type of dis- 
position, will have its own appropriate way of letting the 
truth appear. Under 'class' I include differences of age, 
as boy, man, or old man ; of sex, as man or woman ; of 
nationality, as Spartan or Thessalian. By 'dispositions' I 
here mean those dispositions only which determine the 
character of a man's life, for it is not every disposition that 30 
does this. If, then, a speaker uses the very words which 

' The Greek word for * melody' is appropriate to the lyre and not to 
the trumpet. 
"No lacuna. 


are in keeping with a particular disposition, he will re- 
produce the corresponding character; for a rustic and an 
educated man will not say the same things nor speak in the 
same way. Again, some impression is made upon an 
audience by a device which speech-writers employ to 
nauseous excess, when they say ' Who does not know 
this?' or 'It is known to everybody.' The hearer is 
35 ashamed of his ignorance, and agrees with the speaker, so 
as to have a share of the knowledge that everybody else 
1408'' All the variations of oratorical style are capable of being 
used in season or out of season. The best way to counteract 
any exaggeration is the well-worn device by which the speaker 
puts in some criticism of himself; for then people feel it must 
be all right for him to talk thus, since he certainly knows 
what he is doing. Further, it is better not to have every- 
thing always just corresponding to everything else — your 
5 hearers will see through you less easily thus. I mean for 
instance, if your words are harsh, you should not extend 
this harshness to your voice and your countenance and 
have everything else in keeping. If you do, the arti- 
ficial character of each detail becomes apparent ; whereas 
if you adopt one device and not another, you are using art 
all the same and yet nobody notices it. (To be sure, if 
mild sentiments are expressed in harsh tones and harsh 
sentiments in mild tones, you become comparatively un- 
10 convincing.) Compound words, fairly plentiful epithets, 
and strange words best suit an emotional speech. We 
forgive an angry man for talking about a wrong as ' heaven- 
high ' or ' colossal * ; and we excuse such language when 
the speaker has his hearers already in his hands and has 
stirred them deeply either by praise or blame or anger or 
15 affection, as Isocrates, for instance, does at the end of his 
Panegyric^ with his ' name and fame ' * and ' in that they 
brooked '.^ Men do speak in this strain when they are 
deeply stirred, and so, once the audience is in a like state of 
feeling, approval of course follows. This is why such 
language is fitting in poetry, which is an inspired thing. 

* (firjfiTjv fit Koi fivTjfXTjv, Paneg,, § 186. ' oirti'ff erXi/eroi', ib., § 9^« 

BOOK III. 7 1408" 

This language, then, should be used either under stress 
of emotion, or ironically, after the manner of Gorgias and 30 
of the passages in the Phaedrus.^ 

8 The form of a prose composition should be neither metrical 
nor destitute of rhythm.^ The metrical form destroys the 
hearer's trust by its artificial appearance, and at the same 
time it diverts his attention, making him watch for metrical 
recurrences, just as children catch up the herald's question, 25 
' Whom does the freedman choose as his advocate? ', with 
the answer ' Cleon ! ' On the other hand, unrhythmical 
language is too unlimited ; we do not want the limitations 
of metre, but some limitation we must have, or the effect 
will be vague and unsatisfactory. Now it is number that 
limits all things ; and it is the numerical limitation of the 
form of a composition that constitutes rhythm, of which 
metres are definite sections.^ 

Prose, then, is to be rhythmical, but not metrical, or 30 
it will become not prose but verse. It should not even 
have too precise a prose rhythm, and therefore should only 
be rhythmical to a certain extent. 

Of the various rhythms, the heroic has dignity, but 
lacks the tones of the spoken language.* The iambic 
is the very language of ordinary people, so that in 
common talk iambic lines occur oftener than any others : 35 
but in a speech we need dignity and the power of taking 
the hearer out of his ordinary self. The trochee is too 
much akin to wild dancing : we can see this in tetrameter 


verse, which is one of the trochaic rhythms.'' 1409 

There remains the paean, which speakers began to use in 
the time of Thrasymachus, though they had then no name 

' Cp. Plato, Phaedrus, 238 D, 24 1 E. Irony is attributed to Gorgias, 
with an illustration, in the Politics^ iii. 2, 1275'' 27. 

' Cp. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, On Literary Composition, pp. 

' Reading r/xij/xnTa, with Bywater. 

* Or, read (with Victorius) a-ffivos Ka\ ov XtKriKoi koi ipfioviat ^tofitvot 
and translate * is stately and not suited to ordinary speech and demands 
("needs" rather than "lacks") musical quality (musical delivery or 
accompaniment) '. 

* Or, ' which is a tripping rhythm', if rpoxalos is equivalent to the 
rpo^fpos of some MSS. 


to give it.* The paean is a third class of rhythm, closely 
akin to both the two already mentioned ; it has in it 
the ratio of three to two, whereas the other two kinds have 
5 the ratio of one to one, and two to one respectively. 
Between the two last ratios comes the ratio of one-and-a- 
half to one, which is that of the paean. 

Now the other two kinds of rhythm must be rejected in 
writing prose, partly for the reasons given, and partly 
because they are too metrical ; and the paean must be 
adopted, since from this alone of the rhythms mentioned 
no definite metre arises, and therefore it is the least ob- 
trusive of them. At present the same form of paean is 
lo employed at the beginning as at the end of sentences, 
whereas the end should differ from the beginning. There 
are two opposite kinds of paean, one of which is suitable 
to the beginning of a sentence, where it is indeed actually 
used ; this is the kind that begins with a long syllable and 
ends with three short ones, as 

— u w u 

15 Aakoy^viS \ «tr€ AvKi\av,^ 


— uwv — v^uw 

Xpv(X€0K6[x\a "Ejcare | Trat Ato's.^ 

The other paean begins, conversely, with three short 
syllables and ends with a long one, as 


fX€Ta be yav | vbard t a)K[earoi' ri\(f>dvi(T€ ru^.* 

This kind of paean makes a real close : a short syllable can 
give no effect of finality, and therefore makes the rhythm 
appear truncated. A sentence should break off with the 
long syllable : the fact that it is over should be indicated 
20 not by the scribe, or by his period-mark in the margin, but 
by the rhythm itself. 

We have now seen that our language must be rhythmical 

' Cp. Baiter-Sauppe, op. cit., p. 164 (Thrasymachus). 

'^ 'O Delos-born, or if perchance Lycia (thou callest thy birthplace).' 

^ 'Golden-haired Archer, Son of Zeus.' 

^ ' After earth and its waters, night shrouded the Ocean from sight.' 
This line and the two which precede it are given as fragments of the 
Paeans of Simonides in Bergk*, iii, p. 39S ; Sinionides, fragm. 26^ 

BOOK III. 8 1409" 

and not destitute of rhythm, and what rhythms, in what 
particular shape, make it so. 

9 The language of prose must be either free-running, 
with its parts united by nothing except the connecting 
words, like the preludes in dithyrambs ; or compact and 25 
antithetical, like the strophes of the old poets. The free- 
running style is the ancient one, e. g. * Herein is set forth 
the inquiry of Herodotus the Thurian.' ^ Every one used 
this method formerly ; not many do so now. By * free- 
running' style I mean the kind that has no natural 
stopping-places, and comes to a stop only because there is 30 
no more to say of that subject. This style is unsatisfying just 
because it goes on indefinitely — one always likes to sight 
a stopping-place in front of one : it is only at the goal that 
men in a race faint and collapse ; while they see the end 
of the course before them, they can keep going. Such, then, 
is the free-running kind of style; the compact is that 
which is in periods. By a period I mean a portion of 35 
speech that has in itself a beginning and an end, being at 
the same time not too big to be taken in at a glance. 
Language of this kind is satisfying and easy to follow. 1409'' 
It is satisfying, because it is just the reverse of indefinite ; 
and moreover, the hearer always feels that he is grasping 
something and has reached some definite conclusion ; 
whereas it is unsatisfactory to see nothing in front of you 
and get nowhere.^ It is easy to follow, because it can , 
easily be remembered ; and this because language when 
in periodic form can be numbered,^ and number is the 5 
easiest of all things to remember. That is why verse, 
which is measured, is always more easily remembered 
than prose, which is not : the measures of verse can be 
numbered. The period must, further, not be completed 
until the sense is complete : it must not be capable of 

' Herodotus, i. I, mh.'HpoBorov'WiKapvrjaa-fos 'i<TTopir)s dnobe^is i/^f, 
cos fir)T( ktK. Aristotle intends to indicate the first complete sentence, 
or more than that. 

' Omitting dvai. 

^ i. e. is recognized as consisting of a countable number of parts or 

646-10 1^ 


breaking off abruptly, as may happen with the following 
iambic lines of Sophocles — 

lo Calydon's soil is this ; of Pelops' land 

(The smiling plains face us across the strait).^ 

By a wrong division^ of the words the hearer may take 
the meaning to be the reverse of what it is : for instance, 
in the passage quoted, one might imagine that Calydon 
is in the Peloponnesus. 

A Period may be either divided into several members^ 
or simple. The period of several members is a portion of 
speech (i) complete in itself, (2) divided into parts, and 
(3) easily delivered at a single breath — as a whole, that is ; 

15 not by fresh breath being taken at the division.^ A member 
is one of the two parts of such a period. By a 'simple' 
period, I mean that which has only one member. The 
members, and the whole periods, should be neither curt nor 
long. A member which is too short often makes the listener 
stumble ; he is still expecting the rhythm to go on to the Hmit 

20 his mind has fixed for it ; and if meanwhile he is pulled back 
by the speaker's stopping, the shock is bound to make 
him, so to speak, stumble. If, on the other hand, you go 
on too long, you make him feel left behind, just as people 
who when walking pass beyond the boundary before turning 
back leave their companions ^ behind. So too if a period is 

35 too long you turn it into a speech, or something like a 
dithyrambic prelude. The result is much like the preludes 
that Democritus of Chios jeered at Melanippides for writing 
instead of antistrophic stanzas — 

^ Euripides, Meleager, N.'', p. 525 ; cp. Demetrius, On Style, pp. 98, 

^ i. e. by coming to an abrupt stop at the end of the first line and 
making no pause in its middle. 

' Kmkov : limb of a period, clause of a sentence. 

* Omitting axrnfp koi 17 nepioSos. With these words the sense may 
be ' not with divisions left to the speaker as in the period quoted, but 
when taken as a continuous whole '. But Aristotle's meaning seems to 
be that the * colic ' period must not merely consist of parts that are 
fvavdirveva-Ta. Unless the whole thing is so, you get the over-long 
period, open to the objections mentioned presently. 

^ Toi/f avuTrfpinarovvTas : ' their fellow-peripatetics.' There may be 
A humorous allusion to occasions on which Aristotle's slower-footed 
pupils in the Lyceum had got out of earshot of their strenuous teacher 
who refused to turn when he had reached the recognized limit of the walk. 

BOOK III. 9 1409 

He that sets traps for another man's feet 

Is like to fall into them first ; 
And long-winded preludes do harm to us all, 

But the preluder catches it worst.^ 

Which applies likewise to long-membered ^ orators. Periods 30 
whose members are altogether too short are not periods at 
all ; and the result is to bring the hearer down with a 

The periodic style which is divided into members is 
of two kinds. It is either simply divided, as in ' I have 
often wondered at the conveners of national gatherings and 
the founders of athletic contests ' ; ^ or it is antithetical, 35 
where, in each of the two members, one of one pair of 
opposites is put along with one of another pair, or the 
same word is used to bracket two opposites, as ' They aided 1410^ 
both parties — not only those who stayed behind but those 
who accompanied them : for the latter they acquired new 
territory larger than that at home, and to the former they 
left territory at home that was large enough '.* Here the 
contrasted words are ' staying behind ' and ' accompanying ', 
' enough ' and * larger '. So in the example, * Both to 
those who want to get property and to those who desire 5 
to enjoy it \^ where ' enjoyment ' is contrasted with ' getting '. 
Again, 'it often happens in such enterprises that the wise 
men fail and the fools succeed ' ; ^ ' they were awarded the 
prize of valour immediately, and won the command of 
the sea not long afterwards ' ;'' 'to sail through the main- 
land and march through the sea, by bridging the Hellespont 10 
and cutting through Athos ' ; ^ ' nature gave them their 
country and law took it away again ' ; ^ ' some of them 
perished in misery, others were saved in disgrace ';^° 
'Athenian citizens keep foreigners in their houses as 

' Democritus, X'los finva-tKos (Diog. Laert. ix. 49). Cp. a note in 
Mullach, Democriti Abderitae Operum Fragfnenia,-^, 91, and also see 
Hesiod, Works and Days, 266. 

' i. e. long-winded framers of long-membered periods ; possibly with 
a play on ' long-limbed ', ' lanky ', 

' Isocrates, Paneg., § i. 

* lb. §§ 35, 36 (with variations, as often elsewhere, from the 

' lb., §41. ' lb., §48. ' lb., §72. " lb.,§89- 

» lb., § 105. '0 lb., § 149- 

M a 



servants, while the city of Athens allows her allies by 
15 thousands to live as the foreigner's slaves ' ; ^ and ' to possess 
in life or to bequeath at death '.'^ There is also what 
some one said about Peitholaus and Lycophron in a law- 
court, ' These men used to sell you when they were at home, 
and now they have come to you here and bought you '.^ 
All these passages have the structure described above. 
30 Such a form of speech is satisfying, because the significance 
of contrasted ideas is easily felt, especially when they are 
thus put side by side, and also because it has the effect 
of a logical argument ; it is by putting two opposing 
conclusions side by side that you prove one of them false. 

Such, then, is the nature of antithesis. Parisosis is 
making the two members of a period equal in length. 
Parovioeosis is making the extreme words of both members 
35 like each other. This must happen either at the beginning 
or at the end of each member. If at the beginning, the 
resemblance must always be between whole words ; at the 
end, between final syllables or inflexions of the same word 
or the same word repeated. Thus, at the beginning 

aypov yap eXafiev apybv Tiap avTov * 

bMprjTOL T iiriXovTO irapapp-qToC t* kTiiirrcriv. ^ 

At the end 

30 ovK (i^rjOrjfTav avrbv iraibCov TSTOKipai, aW avTov aiTiov yeyovivai,,^ 


(v TrXetfTTatj 8e ^/JoirriVt Kal kv kka\i(TTais kkma-iv? 

An example of inflexions of the same word is 

a^tos hi aradrjvai, ^(aXKovs, ovk a^ios oyv 'x^aXKOv ;^ 

> lb., § 181. 2 lb., § 186. 

' Cp. Baiter-Sauppe, op. ct't., p. 346. 

* Aristophanes, fragm. 649, Kock, Comicorum Atticorum Frag- 
t/iefita, i, p. 553. ' A field he took from him, a fallow field.' 

' I/tad, ix. 526, ' Yet might they by presents be won, and by plead- 
ings be pacified'. 

* Auct. Inc. With ovk, the meaning will be ' they didn't imagine that 
he had borne the child, but that he was the cause of its having been 
borne\ Presumably a humorous remark in a paternity case. Bonitz 

conjectures : wfiqi uv avriiv ov natdiov kt\. 

' Inc. ' In the midst of plenteous cares and exiguous hopes '. 

* Jnt. ' Is he worthy to have a copper statue, when he is not worth 
a copper ? ' 

BOOK III. 9 1410^ 

Of the same word repeated, 

(TV b' avTov KOL ^(avTa ekeyes kukQ^ koI vvv ypd(f)€i.i kukc^s} 

Of one syllable, 

Ti b' hv iiradfs bdvov, el avbp' elbes apyov ; ^ 35 

It is possible for the same sentence to have all these 

features together — antithesis^ parison, and Jiomoeoteleuton. 1410^ 

(The possible beginnings ^ of periods have been pretty fully 

enumerated in the Theodectea.)^ There are also spurious 

antitheses, like that of Epicharmus — 

There one time I as their guest did stay, 

And they were my hosts on another day.'^ 5 

10 We may now consider the above points settled, and pass 
on to say something about the way to devise lively and 
taking sayings. Their actual invention can only come 
through natural talent or long practice ; but this treatise 
may indicate the way it is done. We may deal with them 
by enumerating the different kinds of them. We will begin 
by remarking that we all naturally find it agreeable to get 10 
hold of new ideas easily : words express ideas, and there- 
fore those words are the most agreeable that enable us to 
get hold of new ideas. Now strange words simply puzzle us ; 
ordinary words convey only what we know already ; it is 
from metaphor that we can best get hold of something fresh. 
When the poet calls old age ' a withered stalk '," he conveys 
a new idea, a new fact, to us by means of the general 
notion of 'lost bloom', which is common to both things. 15 
The similes of the poets do the same, and therefore, if they 
are good similes, give an effect of brilliance. The simile, as 
has been said before,'' is a metaphor, differing from it only 
in the way it is put; and just because it is longer it is less 
attractive. Besides, it does not say outright that 'this' is 

* Inc. ' When he was alive you spoke evil of him, and now you write 
evil of him '. 

* Inc. ' Would it have been very shocking to you if you had seen 
a man idling ? ' ^ Reading apxai with the MSS. 

* Cp. Berlin Aristotle, vol. v, p. 1499 a. 

* Epicharmus, fragm. 49 in Lorenz's Leben und Schrifien des Koers 
Efiickar7nos, p. 273 '• roKa p-ev iv riji'tav tyoiv r/p, ti'iko 8f napa ti'/Vois 
f'ywt', * one time in their midst was I, another time beside them I '. 
Cp. Demetrius, On Style, pp. 80, 216. 

" Odyssey, xiv. 213, 'stubble.' ^ iii, c 4 init. 


' that ', and therefore the hearer is less interested in the idea. 

30 We see, then, that both speech and reasoning are lively in 
proportion as they make us seize a new idea promptly. 
For this reason people are not much taken either by obvious 
arguments (using the word ' obvious ' to mean what is plain 
to everybody and needs no investigation), nor by those 
which puzzle us^ when we bear them stated, but only by 
those which convey their information to us as soon as we 

25 hear them, provided we had not the information already ; 
or which the mind only just fails to keep up with. These 
two kinds do convey to us a sort of information : but the 
obvious and the obscure kinds convey nothing, either at 
once or later on. It is these qualities, then, that, so far as 
the meaning of what is said is concerned, make an argument 
acceptable. So far as the style is concerned, it is the 
antithetical form that appeals to us, e.g. 'judging that the 

30 peace common to all the rest was a war upon their own 
private interests,'^ where there is an antithesis between war 
and peace. It is also good to use metaphorical words ; but 
the metaphors must not be far-fetched, or they will be 
difficult to grasp, nor obvious, or they will have no effect. 
The words, too, ought to set the scene before our eyes ; 
for events ought to be seen in progress rather than in 

35 prospect. So we must aim at these three points : Anti- 
thesis, Metaphor, and Actuality. 
1411^ Of the four kinds of Metaphor the most taking is the 
proportional kind. Thus Pericles, for instance, said that 
the vanishing from their country of the young men who had 
fallen in the war was ' as if the spring were taken out of the 
year '.^ Leptines, speaking of the Lacedaemonians, said that 
5 he would not have the Athenians let Greece ' lose one of 
her two eyes '.■* When Chares was pressing for leave to be 
examined upon his share in the Olynthiac war, Cephisodotus 
was indignant, saying that he wanted his examination to 
take place ' while he had his fingers upon the people's 

' Cp. ii, c. 23, 1400'' 34. By water's conjecture ayvoovfitv seems 
right here. 

" Isocrates, Philippus, 73. ' Cp. i, c. 7, 1365"* 32, 33- 

* Baiter- Sauppe, op. cit., p. 250 (Leptines). 

BOOK III. lo 1411^ 

throat '.^ The same speaker once urged the Athenians to 
march to Euboea, ' with Miltiades' decree as their rations '.^ 10 
Iphicrates, indignant at the truce made by the Athenians 
with Epidaurus and the neighbouring sea-board, said that 
they had stripped themselves of their travelh'ng-money for 
the journey of war.^ Peitholaus called the state-galley * the 
people's big stick ', and Sestos ' the corn-bin of the^Peiraeus '.* 
Pericles bade his countrymen remove Aegina, ' that eyesore 15 
of the Peiraeus.' And Moerocles said he was no more a 
rascal than was a certain respectable citizen he named, 
' whose rascality was worth over thirty ^ per cent, per annum 
to him, instead of a mere ten like his own '.^ There is also 
the iambic line of Anaxandrides about the way his daughters 
put off marrying — 

My daughters' marriage-bonds are overdue."^ 20 

Polyeuctus said of a paralytic man named Speusippus that 
he could not keep quiet, 'though fortune had fastened him 
in the pillory of disease'. Cephisodotus called warships 
'painted millstones'.^ Diogenes the Dog called taverns 
' the mess-rooms of Attica '. Aesion said that the Athenians 25 
had ' emptied ' their town into Sicily : this is a graphic meta- 
phor.^ ' Till all Hellas shouted aloud ' may be regarded 
as a metaphor, and a graphic one again. Cephisodotus 
bade the Athenians take care not to hold too many 
' parades '.^*^ Isocrates used the same word of those who 30 
' parade ' at the national festivals.^^ Another example 
occurs in the Funeral Speech : ^^ ' It is fitting that Greece 
should cut off her hair beside the tomb of those who fell at 
Salamis, since her freedom and their valour are buried in 
the same grave.' Even if the speaker here had only said 

^ i. e. while he was still in command of his mercenaries, and so could 
coerce the people. 
^ Baiter-Sauppe, p. 220 (Cephisodotus). 
' lb., p. 219 (Iphicrates). 

* lb., p. 318 (Peitholaus). 

" To be precise, 33^%. ® Baiter- Sauppe, p. 275 (Moerocles). 

^ Anaxandrides ; Kock, Com. Alt. Fragm., ii, p. 162. 

* Baiter-Sauppe, p. 220 (Cephisodotus). * lb., p. 318 (Aesion). 
'" lb., p. 220 (Cephisodotus). If fKKXqauis is retained, the meaning 

will be ' take care not to turn many of their mobs into assemblies *. 
" Isocrates, Philipptts, 12. " Epitaphius (by Lysias ?), 60. 


that it was right to weep when valour was being buried in 

35 their grave, it would have been a metaphor, and a graphic 
1411'' one ; but the coupling of ' their valour ' and ' her freedom ' 
presents a kind of antithesis as well. ' The course of my 
words ', said Iphicrates, ' lies straight through the middle of 
Chares' deeds ' : ^ this is a proportional metaphor, and the 
phrase ' straight through the middle ' makes it graphic. The 
5 expression ' to call in one danger to rescue us from another ' 
is a graphic metaphor. Lycoleon said, defending Chabrias, 
' They did not respect even that bronze statue of his that 
intercedes for him yonder'.'^ This was a metaphor for the 
moment, though it would not always apply ; a vivid 
metaphor, however ; Chabrias is in danger, and his statue 
intercedes for him — that lifeless yet living thing which 

]o records his services to his country.^ * Practising in every 
way littleness of mind ' * is metaphorical, for practising 
a quality implies increasing it.^ So is ' God kindled our 
reason to be a lamp within our souls'," for both reason 
and light reveal things. So is ' we are not putting an end 

15 to our wars, but only postponing themV for both literal 
postponement and the making of such a peace as this apply 
to future action. So is such a saying as ' This treaty is a far 
nobler trophy than those we set up on fields of battle ; they 
celebrate small gains and single successes ; it celebrates our 
triumph in the war as a whole ' ; ^ for both trophy and treaty 
are signs of victory. So is^ 'A country pays a heavy 
reckoning in being condemned by the judgement of man- 

20 kind \^^ for a reckoning is damage deservedly incurred. 

It has already been mentioned that liveliness is got by n 
using the proportional type of metaphor and by being 
graphic (i. c. making your hearers see things). Wc have 
still to explain what we mean by their ' seeing things ', and 

' Baiter-Sauppe,^/.c;/.,p. i9l(underLysias). "^ Ib.,p. 249 (Lycoleon). 

^ Or, ' the great deeds of his country ' (Chares' glory being regarded 
as the glory of Athens). The translation given above would be easier 
if the conjecture v7r*p tti^ rroXecoj were followed. 

* \^ozxdX^%, Paneg., 151. 

' ' Practising' being a kind of ' increasing', the present metaphor is 
one tiTTo Toi"' tcSou? tVl TO ytVof, ' from species to genus ' {Poetics, c. 21) 

' Atict. Inc. ■' Isocrates, Paneg., 172. " lb., iSo. 

® Reading /cul on. '" Auct. Inc. ; cp. Isocrates, De Pace, 120, 


what must be done to effect this. By ' making them see 
things ' I mean using expressions that represent things as 25 
in a state of activity. Thus, to say that a good man is 
' four-square ' * is certainly a metaphor ; both the good 
man and the square are perfect ; but the metaphor does 
not suggest activity. On the other hand, in the expression 
' with his vigour in full bloom ' ^ there is a notion of activity ; 
and so in ' But you must roam as free as a sacred victim';^ 
and in 

Thereat up sprang the Hellenes to their feet,* 30 

where ' up sprang ' gives us activity as well as metaphor, 
for it at once suggests swiftness. So with Homer's common 
practice of giving metaphorical life to lifeless things : all such 
passages are distinguished by the effect of activity they 
convey. Thus, 

Downward anon to the valley rebounded the boulder 
remorseless ; ° 

The (bitter) arrow jleiv ; " 

Flying on eagerly ; ^ 35 


Stuck in the earth, still panting to feed on the flesh 1412'"^ 

of the heroes ; ** 

And the point of the spear in its fury drove full 

through his breastbone.'-' 

In all these examples the things have the effect of being active 
because they are made into living beings ; shameless 
behaviour and fury and so on are all forms of activity. 
And the poet has attached these ideas to the things by means 
of proportional metaphors : as the stone is to Sisyphus, so is 5 

' Simonides, fragm. 5, Bergk^ "^ Isocrates, Philippus, 10. 

' lb., 127. 

* Euripides, Iph. Aul., 80. The received text of Euripides has not 
TTOfTiV but bopl, ' spear in hand'. 

"* Odyssey^ xi. 598, J. E. Sandys ; ' Bounded the pitiless boulder with 
thunder of doom to the plain', A. S. Way. 

" Iliad, xiii. 587 ai'6 S' firraTO niKpos oicrroi ', cp. 592. 
^ Iliad, iv. 126. Here too an arrow is spoken of. 

* Iliad, xi. 574. Spears are falling short of their mark. 

* Iliad, XV. 542. 


the shameless man to his victim. In his famous similes, 
too, he treats inanimate things in the same way : 

Curving and crested with white, host following host 
without ceasing.^ 

Here he represents everything as moving and living ; and 
activity is movement. 

Metaphors must be drawn, as has been said already,'^ from 

lo things that are related to the original thing, and yet not 
obviously so related — ^just as in philosophy also an acute 
mind will perceive resemblances even in things far apart. 
Thus Archytas said that an arbitrator and an altar were 
the same, since the injured fly to both for refuge.^ Or you 
might say that an anchor and an overhead hook were the 
same, since t)oth are in a way the same, only the one 

15 secures things from below and the other from above. And 
to speak of states as ' levelled ' * is to identify two widely 
different things, the equality of a physical surface and the 
equality of political powers. 

Liveliness is specially conveyed by metaphor, and by the 
further power of surprising the hearer ; because the hearer 
expected something different, his acquisition of the new idea 

20 impresses him all the more. His mind seems to say, ' Yes, 
to be sure; I never thought of that'. The liveliness of 
epigrammatic remarks is due to the meaning not being just 
what the words say : as in the saying of Stesichorus that 
' the cicalas will chirp to themselves on the ground '.^ Well- 
constructed riddles are attractive for the same reason ; a new 
idea is conveyed, and there is metaphorical expression. So 

25 with the ' novelties ' of Theodorus.^ In these the thought is 
startling, and, as Theodorus puts it, does not fit in with the 
ideas you already have. They are like the burlesque words 
that one finds in the comic writers. The effect is produced 
even by jokes depending upon changes of the letters of a 
word ; '' this too is a surprise. You find this in verse as well 

* //tad, xiii. 799. Ocean waves rolling to the shore. 
' iii, c. 10, i4lo*'32. 

^ Diels, Vors.', i, p. 326. 

* Cp. Isocrates, Philippus, 40. ' Cp. ii, c. 21, supra. 

* Cp. Spengel, Artium Scripiores, p. 103. 

' Plays upon words are meant, here and eight lines lower down. 


as in prose. The word which comes is not what the hearer 
imagined: thus 

Onward he came, and his feet were shod with his — 30 

where one imagined the word would be ' sandals '. But the 
point should be clear the moment the words are uttered. 
Jokes made by altering the letters of a word consist in 
meaning, not just what you say, but something that gives a 
twist to the word used ; e. g. the remark of Theodorus 
about Nicon the harpist ©parr' d <rv^ ('you Thracian 
slavey '), where he pretends to mean OpdrTds o-u ^ (' you 35 
harp-player'), and surprises us when we find he means 
something else. So you enjoy the point when you see it, 1412'' 
though the remark will fall flat unless you are aware that 
Nicon is a Thracian. Or again : /3ovAet avrov iiipa-ai..* In 
both these cases the saying must fit the facts.** This is 
also true of such lively remarks as the one to the effect 
that to the Athenians their empire {apxv) of the sea was 
not the beginning (dpx^) of their troubles, since they gained 5 
by it. Or the opposite one of Isocrates, that their empire 
i^PXv) w^-f the beginning (apx^) of their troubles.^ Either 
way, the speaker says something unexpected, the soundness 
of which is thereupon recognized. There would be nothing 
clever in saying 'empire is empire '. Isocrates means more 

' Auc/. Inc. Probably from some burlesque hexameter poem. 

* The MSS. have dpuTTn cr« in both cases. The readings given con- 
jecturally above are suggested by Mr. Greenwood, following Professor 
Lane Cooper's article in the American Journal of Philology, January 
1920, For a possible colloquial use of dparro) as ' play the harp ' (or rather 
' strum ', with a pun here on ' strumpet '), cp. the ^Xnrro^pnr passage 
of the Frogs, 1296. There may be a further pun here on the sense 
' you are confounded {dfjdTrei crv) ', * confound you ' (5parTa) = Tapdrra)). 

* See preceding note. 

* * You wish [or, do you wish] to persecute him ' : a pun on Ilepo-ai 
and nepoat (aor. infin. oi Tripdw), The same play-on-words is found, I 
think, in Aeschylus' Persians, e.g. line 178 'laocwi/ yrip olxtrai itipaai 6i\utv 
(' fain to ravage-in-the-Persian-way ', viz. aayr^vtixrai), which should be 
compared with 'EXivav .... tXeVar, (Kav?)pos, (\(nro\is in Agatnemnon 
687. Others have detected here a play on ^ovXt) avrov nepa-ai, ' may 
counsel (or, the Council) destroy him'; or a play, again, on ^oiXjj 
(dative). But QpJKa suggests that ritpcrai is the real point. 

" Or, * there must be a proper enunciation', i.e. a significant stress 
must be laid on the ambiguous word— ^puTTf* in the one case and 
■ntptrat in the other. But cp. 1412^ 1 1 and 13. 

* Cp. Isocrates, Philippus 61 ; Paneg. 119; De Pace loi. 


than that, and uses the word with a new meaning. So too 
with the former saying, which denies that apxii in one sense 
lo was apxri in another sense. In all these jokes, whether a 
word is used in a second sense or metaphorically, the joke 
is good if it fits the facts. For instance, 'Avda-xeros (proper 
name) ovk avaax^ros : ^ where you say that what is so-and-so 
in one sense is not so-and-so in another ; well, if the man 
is unpleasant, the joke fits the facts. Again, take — 

Thou must not be a stranger stranger than 
Thou should'st.^ 

Do not ^ the words ' thou must not be ', &c., amount to 

15 saying that the stranger must not always be strange? 

Here again is the use of one word in different senses. Of the 

same kind also is the much-praised verse of Anaxandrides : 

Death is most fit before you do 

Deeds that would make death fit for you.* 

This amounts to saying ' it is a fit thing to die when you 
are not fit to die ', or 'it is a fit thing to die when death is 

20 not fit for you ', i. e. when death is not the fit return for 
what you are doing. The type of language employed is 
the same in all these examples ; but the more briefly and 
antithetically such sayings can be expressed, the more 
taking they are, for antithesis impresses the new idea more 
firmly and brevity more quickly. They should always 
have either some personal application or some merit of 

25 expression,^ if they are to be true without being common- 
place — two requirements not always satisfied simultaneously. 
Thus ' a man should die having done no wrong ' is true but 
dull : * the right man should marry the right woman ' '^ is 
also true but dull. No, there must be both good qualities 
together, as in ' it is fitting to die when you are not fit 
for death '. The more a saying has these qualities, the 

30 livelier it appears : if, for instance, its wording is meta- 

* ' Baring is past bearing.' 

^ Kock, Com. Fragm., iii. 209. The above rendering retains the 
second ^tVor. 

^ Retaining *] and regarding the sentence as a question. 

* Anaxandrides: Kock, Com. Ait. Fragm., ii, p. 161. 

* opd^i Xtytadm, implying the use of the mot juste. 

^ Kock, Com. Att. Fragm., iii, p. 447 ; fragm. adesp. 206. 

BOOK III. II 1412'' 

phorical, metaphorical in the right way, antithetical, 
and balanced, and at the same time it gives an idea of 

Successful similes also, as has been said above,^ are in a 
sense metaphors, since they always involve two relations 
like the proportional metaphor. Thus : a shield, we say, 35 
is the ' drinking-bowl of Ares ',2 and a bow is the ' chordless 1413* 
lyre '.^ This way of putting a metaphor is not ' simple ', 
as it would be if we called the bow a lyre or the shield a 
drinking-bowl. There are ' simple ' similes also : we may say 
that a flute-player is like a monkey, or that a short-sighted 
man's eyes are like a lamp-flame with water dropping on 
it, since both eyes and flame keep winking.* A simile 
succeeds best when it is a converted metaphor, for it is 
possible to say that a shield is like the drinking-bowl of 5 
Ares, or tnat a ruin is like a house in rags, and to say 
that Niceratus is like a Philoctetes stung by Pratys — the 
simile made by Thrasymachus when he saw Niceratus, who 
had been beaten by Pratj's in a recitation competition, 
still going about unkempt and unwashed. It is in these 
respects that poets fail worst when they fail, and succeed 10 
best when they succeed, i. e. when they give the resemblance 
pat, as in 

Those legs of his curl just like parsley leaves ; ^ 


Just like Philammon struggling with his punch-ball.^ 

These are all similes ; and that similes are metaphors has 
been stated often already.^ 

Proverbs, again, are metaphors from one species to another." 
Suppose, for instance, a man to start some undertaking in 15 
hope of gain and then to lose by it later on, * Here we have 

' ill, cc. 4 and 10. 

* Timotheus, fragm. 16, Bergk*. Cp. ill, c. 4 fin. 

' 0i')/i^iy^ nxopdos : attributed to Theognis in Demetrius, tfe E/oc, 
§85. Probably Theognis tragicus; cp. Demetrius, On Style, p. 22S. 
i3ut see Bergk*, fragm. adesp. 127, vol. iii, p. 728. 

* Or, * that a short-sighted man is like a sputtering lamp, since both 
wink', if \^a<cnfo^€'j/a> can be taken as middle. 

* Kock, Com. Att. Fragm., iii, fr. adesp. 207, p. 448. 

* lb., iii,'fr. 208, p. 448. "^ iii, cc. 4, 10, li. * Cp. Poetics, c. 21. 


once more the man of Carpathus and his hare ',^ says he. 
For both alike went through the said experience. 

It has now been explained fairly completely how liveliness 
is secured and why it has the effect it has. Successful 
hyperboles are also metaphors, e. g. the one about the man 
30 with a black eye, ' you would have thought he was a 
basket of mulberries ' ; here the ' black eye ' is compared to 
a mulberry because of its colour, the exaggeration lying in 
the quantity of mulberries suggested. The phrase ' like so- 
and-so' may introduce a hyperbole under the form of a 
simile. Thus 

Just like Philammon struggling with his punch-ball 

35 is equivalent to '' yoti would have thought he was Philammon 
struggling with his punch-ball ' ; and 

Those legs of his curl just like parsley leaves 

is equivalent to ' his legs are so curly that you ivould have 
thoiight they were not legs but parsley leaves '. Hyper- 
boles are for young men to use ; they show vehemence 
of character ; and this is why angry people use them more 
30 than other people. 

Not though he gave me as much as the dust or the sands 

of the sea . . ?• 
But her, the daughter of Atreus' son, I never will marry, 
Nay, not though she were fairer than Aphrodite the 

Defter of hand than Athene . . ? 

1413'' (The Attic orators are particularly fond of this method of 
speech.*) Consequently it does not suit an elderly speaker. 

It should be observed that each kind of rhetoric has its 12 

own appropriate style. The style of written prose is not 

that of spoken oratory," nor are those of political and 

5 forensic speaking the same. Both written and spoken have 

to be known. To know the latter is to know how to 

' Hares, introduced with good intention into the island, increased 
to a plague. 

* Iliad, ix. 385. ' Iliad, ix. 388-90. ■* i.e. hyperbole. 

' dywi'toTKcij : more strictly, the oratory of debate — of the actual 
'struggles' of the law-courts and the assembly; the 'combative', 
'controversial' style. 

BOOK III. 12 1413" 

speak good Greek. To know the former means that you 
are not obliged, as otherwise you are, to hold your 
tongue when you wish to communicate something to the 
general public. 

The written style is the more finished : the spoken better 
admits of dramatic delivery — alike the kind of oratory that 10 
reflects character and the kind that reflects emotion. Hence 
actors look out for plays written in the latter style, and poets 
for actors competent to act in such plays. Yet poets whose 
plays are meant to be read are read and circulated : ^ 
Chaeremon, for instance, who is as finished as a professional 
speech-writer ; and Licymnius among the dithyrambic poets. 
Compared with those of others, the speeches of professional 15 
writers sound thin in actual contests. Those of the 
orators, on the other hand, are good to hear spoken, but 
look amateurish enough when they pass into the hands of a 
reader. This is just because they are so well suited for an 
actual tussle, and therefore contain many dramatic touches, 
which, being robbed of all dramatic rendering, fail to do 
their own proper work, and consequently look silly. Thus 
strings of unconnected words, and constant repetitions of 
words and phrases, are very properly condemned in written 20 
speeches : but not in spoken speeches — speakers use them 
freely, for they have a dramatic effect. In this repetition 
there must be variety of tone, paving the way, as it were, to 
dramatic effect ; e. g. ' This is the villain among you who 
deceived you, who cheated you, who meant to betray 
you completely '. This is the sort of thing that Philemon 
the actor used to do in the Old Men's Madness of 
Anaxand rides, whenever he spoke the words ' Rhadamanthus 35 
and Palamedes '.'^ and also in the prologue to the Saints 
whenever he pronounced the pronoun ' I '? If one does 
not deliver such things cleverly, it becomes a case of 
' the man who swallowed a poker '.* So too with strings 
of unconnected words, e.g. 'I came to him; I met him; 

* &a<TTa^ovrat '. are carried about as 'pocket-companions'. 

* Kock, Com. Att. Fragm., ii, p. 139; Anaxandrides, TfpovrofjLavia, 
fr. 10. 

' lb., ii, p. 140 ; Anaxandrides, Eva-f0('is. 

* Lit., ' the man who carries the beam '. 


I besought him '. Such passages must be acted, not 
30 deh'vered with the same quaUty and pitch of voice, as 
though they had only one idea in them. They have the 
further peculiarity of suggesting that a number of separate 
statements have been made in the time usually occupied by 
one. Just as the use of conjunctions makes many state- 
ments into a single one, so the omission of conjunctions acts 
in the reverse way and makes a single one into many. It 
thus makes everything more important : e. g. ' I came to 
1414^ him ; I talked to him ; I entreated him ' — what a lot of 
facts ! the hearer thinks — * he paid no attention to anything 
I said'.^ This is the effect which Homer seeks when he 

Nireus likewise from Syme (three well-fashioned ships 

did bring), 
Nireus, the son of Aglaia (and Charopus, bright-faced 

Nireus, the comeliest man (of all that to Ilium's 


If many things are said about a man, his name must be 
mentioned many times ; and therefore people think that, if 
his name is mentioned many times, many things have been 
said about him. So that Homer, by means of this illusion, 
5 has made a great deal of Nireus, though he has mentioned 
him only in this one passage, and has preserved his memory, 
though he nowhere says a word about him afterwards. 

Now the style of oratory addressed to public assembh'es 
is really just like scene-painting. The bigger the throng, 
the more distant is the point of view : so that, in the one 
and the other, high finish in detail is superfluous and seems 
10 better away. The forensic style is more highly finished; 
still more so is the style of language addressed to a single 
judge, with whom there is very little room for rhetorical 
artifices, since he can take the whole thing in better, and 
judge of what is to the point and what is not ; the struggle 
is less intense and so the judgement is undisturbed. This 

* A'= has -noWh. toKfl i)Tr(pi8('iv ocrn tl-niv, ' the hearer seems to survey 
quite a number of things that the speaker has said'. But this is not 
the usual meaning of iirtpopav. 

^ Iliad, ii. 671-3. Cp. Demetrius, On Style, pp. 100-3, 222, 223. 

BOOK III. 12 1414^ 

is why the same speakers do not distinguish themselves 
in all these branches at once ; high finish is wanted least 
where dramatic delivery is wanted most, and here the speaker 15 
must have a good voice, and above all, a strong one. It is 
ceremonial oratory that is most literary, for it is meant to 
be read ; and next to it forensic oratory. 

To analyse style still further, and add that it must be 
agreeable or magnificent, is useless ; for why should 
it have these traits any more than 'restraint', 'liberality', 20 
or any other moral excellence? Obviously agreeableness 
will be produced by the qualities already mentioned, if our 
definition of excellence of style has been correct.^ For 
what other reason should style be ' clear ', and ' not mean ' but 
' appropriate ' ? If it is prolix, it is not clear; nor yet if it is 
curt. Plainly the middle way suits best. Again, style will be 35 
made agreeable by the elements mentioned, namely by a 
good blending of ordinary and unusual words, by the rhythm, 
and by the persuasiveness that springs from appropriateness. 

This concludes our discussion of style, both in its 
general aspects and in its special^ applications to the 
various branches of rhetoric. We have now to deal with 

13 A speech has two parts. You must state your case, and 30 
you must prove it. You cannot either state your case and 
omit to prove it, or prove it without having first stated it ; 
since any proof must be a proof of something, and the only use 
of a preliminary statement is the proof that follows it. Of 
these two parts the first part is* called the Statement of 
the case, the second part the Argument, just as we dis- 
tinguish ^ between Enunciation and Demonstration. The .^5 
current division is absurd. For ' narration ' surely is part 
of a forensic speech only: how in a political speech or a 
speech of display can there be ' narration ' in the technical 
sense ? or a reply to a forensic opponent ? or an epilogue " in 1414 
closely-reasoned speeches ? Again, introduction, comparison 

' Cp. iii, c. 2 init. '^ iii, cc. 2-1 1. 

* iii, c. 12. ■• sc. in rhetoric. * sc. in dialectic. 

" Or ' peroration ', except that the (m\oyns, or conclusion of a speech, 
is usually a longer affair than what we now undei>UH*44iv ' peroration '. 

845-10 N C 


of conflicting arguments, and recapitulation are only found 
in political speeches when there is a struggle between two 
policies. They may occur then ; so may even accusation 
and defence, often enough ; but they form no essential part 
of a political speech. Even forensic speeches do not always 

5 need epilogues ; not, for instance, a short speech, nor one in 
which the facts are easy to remember, the effect of an 
epilogue being always a reduction in" the apparent length.^ 
It follows, then, that the only necessary parts of a speech 
are the Statement and the Argument. These are the 
essential features of a speech ; and it cannot in any case 
have more than Introduction, Statement, Argument, and 
Epilogue. 'Refutation of the Opponent' is part of the 
arguments : so is ' Comparison ' of the opponent's case with 

10 your own, for that process is a magnifying of your own 
case and therefore a part of the arguments, since one 
who does this proves something. The Introduction does 
nothing like this; nor does the Epilogue — it merely 
reminds us of what has been said already. If we make 
such distinctions we shall end, like Theodorus and his 
followers, by distinguishing ' narration ' proper from ' post- 
narration' and 'pre-narration', and 'refutation' from 'final 

15 refutation '.^ But we ought only to bring in a new name if 
it indicates a real species with distinct specific qualities; 
otherwise the practice is pointless and silly, like the way 
Licymnius^ invented names in his Art of Rhetoric — 
* Secundation ',* ' Divagation ', ' Ramification '. 

The Introduction is the beginning of a speech, corre- ^4 
30 sponding to the prologue in poetry and the prelude in flute- 
music ; they are all beginnings, paving the way, as it were, 
for what is to follow. The musical prelude resembles the 
introduction to speeches of display; as flute-players play 

* A good effect where a speech may seem too long ; bad, where it 
may seem too short already. 

* Cp. Spengel, Artium Scriptores, p. 99, and Plato, PAaedrus, 266, 

' Cp. Spengel, op. cit., p. 88. 

* Or, ' Acceleration '. But the reference in fnovpoiais seems to be to 
subsidiary arguments which speed on the speech /i^e a favouring 
breeze. ' Secundation ' or * Proflation ' may serve to suggest the 

BOOK III. 14 1414^ 

first some brilliant passage they know well and then fit it 
on to the opening notes of the piece itself, so in speeches of 
display the writer should proceed in the same way ; he 
should begin with what best takes his fancy, and then 25 
strike up his theme and lead into it ; which is indeed what 
is always done. (Take as an example the introduction to 
the Helen^ of Isocrates— there is nothing in common 
between the * eristics ' ^ and Helen.) And here, even if you 
travel far from your subject, it is fitting, rather than that 
there should be sameness in the entire speech. 

The usual subject for the introductions to speeches of 30 
display is some piece of praise or censure. Thus Gorgias 
writes in his Olympic Speech, ' You deserve widespread 
admiration, men of Greece ', praising thus those who started 
the festival gatherings.^ Isocrates, on the other hand, 
censures them for awarding distinctions to fine athletes but 
giving no prize for intellectual ability.* Or one may begin 
with a piece of advice, thus : ' We ought to honour good 35 
men and so I myself am praising Aristeides ' or ' We ought 
to honour those who are unpopular but not bad men, men 
whose good qualities have never been noticed, like Alexander 
son of Priam.' Here the orator gives advice. Or we may 14.15* 
begin as speakers do in the law-courts ; that is to say, with 
appeals to the audience to excuse us if our speech is 
about something paradoxical, difficult, or hackneyed ; like 
Choerilus in the lines — 

But now when allotment of all has been made . . .° 
Introductions to speeches of display, then, may be com- 5 
posed of some piece of praise or censure, of advice to do or 
not to do something, or of appeals to the audience ; and you 
must choose between making these preliminary passages 
connected or disconnected with the speech itself. 

* Isocrates, Helena, 1-13. 

* i, e. the disputatious dialecticians to whom Isocrates refers in the 
introduction to his Helena, 3, 4: Protagoras, Gorgias, &c. 

» Baiter-Sauppe, op. cit., p. 129 (Gorgias). 

* Isocrates, Paneg. 1,2. 

* From the epic poem {Perseis) on the Persian war by Choerilus of 
Samos. The context is given in Kinkel's Epkorum Graecorum 
Fragmenta, pp. 266, 267. The apology is for a theme as hackneyed 
as the Persian war had become. 

N 2 


Introductions to forensic speeches, it must be observed, 
have the same value as the prologues of dramas and the 
introductions to epic poems ; the dithyrambic prelude 
lo resembling the introduction to a speech of display, as 
For thee, and thy gifts, and thy battle-spoils . . .^ 

In prologues,^ and in epic poetry, a foretaste of the theme 
is given, intended to inform the hearers of it in advance 
instead of keeping their minds in suspense. Anything 
vague puzzles them : so give them a grasp of the beginning, 
15 and they can hold fast to it and follow the argument. So 
we find — 

Sing, O goddess of song, of the Wrath . . .^ 

Tell me, O Muse, of the hero . . .* 

Lead me to tell a new tale, how there came great warfare 

to Europe 
Out of the Asian land . . .''' 

The tragic poets, too, let us know the pivot of their play ; 
if not at the outset like Euripides, at least somewhere in the 
20 preface to a speech " like Sophocles — 

Polybus was my father . . . ; "^ 

and so in Comedy. This, then, is the most essential 
function and distinctive property of the introduction, to 
show what the aim of the speech is ; and therefore no 
introduction ought to be employed where the subject is not 
long or intricate. 
35 The other -kinds of introduction emploj'ed are remedial 
in purpose, and may be used in any type of speech. They 
are concerned with the speaker, the hearer, the subject, or 
the speaker's opponent. Those concerned with the speaker 

' Rergk*, iii, p. 728, fragm. adesp. 124. 

* sc. dramatic prologues (cp. 1414'' 20 and 1415*9). Reading (with 
the Old Latin Translation, cp. the Scholiast, Rabe, p. 230) iv hi 
7rpoX()-yoif, in place of «V bt Toi<: Xfjyoty. 

' J Had, i. I. * Odyssey, i. i. 

" Choerilus ? ; cp. Kinkel, op. cit., p. 267. 

* Some such rendering seems necessary if the manuscript reading is 
retained, the TrpoAoyoj being regarded for the nonce as the beginning 
not of a play but of a dramatic speech. But Spengcl's conjecture 
Siimtp V.vinrTiBqs (V tco TrpoXo-yto, «XXa ye nov uxmip 2o(^o»cXr;y IS attractive. 

' Sophocles, Oedipus Tyfafiniis, 774. 

BOOK III. 14 J415* 

himself or with his opponent are directed to removing or 
exciting prejudice. But whereas the defendant will begin 
by dealing with this sort of thing, the prosecutor will 
take quite another line and deal with such matters in 
the closing part of his speech. The reason for this is not far 30 
to seek. The defendant, when he is going to bring himself 
on the stage, must clear away any obstacles, and therefore 
must begin by removing any prejudice felt against him. 
But if you are to excite prejudice, you must do so at the 
close, so that the judges may more easily remember what 
you have said. 

The appeal to the hearer aims at securing his goodwill, 
or at arousing his resentment, or sometimes at gaining his 35 
serious attention to the case, or even at distracting it — for 
gaining it is not always an advantage, and speakers will 
often for that reason try to make him laugh. 

You may use any means you choose to make your hearer 
receptive ; among others, giving him a good impression 
of your character, which always helps to secure his attention 
He will be ready to attend to anything that touches himself, 14.15 
and to anything that is important, surprising, or agreeable ; 
and you should accordingly convey to him the impression 
that what you have to say is of this nature. If you wish to 
distract his attention, you should imply that the subject 
does not affect him, or is trivial or disagreeable. But 
observe, all this has nothing to do with the speech itself. 5 
It merely has to do with the weak-minded tendency of the 
hearer to listen to what is beside the point. Where this 
tendency is absent, no introduction is wanted beyond a 
summary statement of your subject, to put a sort of head on 
the main body of your speech. Moreover, calls for attention, 
when required, may come equally well in any part of a 
speech; in fact, the beginning of it is just where there is 10 
least slackness of interest ; it is therefore ridiculous to 
put this kind of thing at the beginning, when every one is 
listening with most attention. Choose therefore any point 
in the speech where such an appeal is needed, and then say 
'Now I beg you to note this point — it concerns you quite 
as much as myself ' ; or 


I will tell you that whose like you have never yet' 

heard for terror, or for wonder. This is what Prodicus 
15 called 'slipping in a bit of the fifty-drachma show- 
lecture for the audience whenever they began to nod '. It 
is plain that such introductions are addressed not to ideal 
hearers, but to hearers as we find them. The use of intro- 
ductions to excite prejudice or to dispel misgivings is 
universal — 

My lord, I will not say that eagerly . . .2 
20 or 

Why all this preface ? ^ 
Introductions are popular with those whose case is weak, or 
looks weak ; it pays them to dwell on anything rather than 
the actual facts of it. That is why slaves, instead of 
answering the questions put to them, make indirect replies 
with long preambles. The means of exciting in your 
25 hearers goodwill and various other feelings of the same 
kind have already been described.* The poet finely says 

May I find in Phaeacian hearts, at my coming, goodwill 
and compassion ; •'• 

and these are the two things we should aim at. In speeches 
of display we must make the hearer feel that the eulogy 
includes either himself or his family or his way of life or 
something or other of the kind. For it is true, as Socrates 

30 says in the Funeral Speech,^ that • the difliculty is not to 
praise the Athenians at Athens but at Sparta '. 

The introductions of political oratory will be made out of 
the same materials as those of the forensic kind, though 
the nature of political oratory makes them very rare. The 
subject is known already, and therefore the facts of the 
case need no introduction ; but you may have to say some- 
thing on account of yourself or your opponents ; or those 

35 present may be inclined to treat the matter either more or 
less seriously than you wish them to. You may accordingly 
have to excite or dispel some prejudice, or to make the 

* Auct. Inc. "^ Sophocles, Antigone, 223. 
' Cp. Euripides, iph. Taur., 1162. 

* ii, cc. i flf. * Odyssey, vi. 327. 

* Cp. Plato, Menexenus, 235 u. 

BOOK III. 14 1415 

matter under discussion seem more or less important 
than before : ^ for either of which purposes you will want an 
introduction. You may also want one to add elegance to 
your remarks, feeling that otherwise they will have a casual 
air, like Gorgias' eulogy of the Eleans, in which, without 1416" 
any preliminary sparring or fencing, he begins straight off 
with ' Happy city of Elis ! '^ 

15 In dealing with prejudice, one class of argument is that 
whereby you can dispel objectionable suppositions about 
yourself. It makes no practical difference whether such 5 
a supposition has been put into words or not, so that this 
distinction may be ignored. Another way^ is to meet any 
of the issues directly : to deny the alleged fact ; or to say 
that you have done no harm, or none to him, or not as 
much as he says ; or that you have done him no injustice, 
or not much ; or that you have done nothing disgraceful, 
or nothing disgraceful enough to matter : these are the sort 
of questions on which the dispute hinges. Thus Iphicrates, 
replying to Nausicrates, admitted that he had done the deed 10 
alleged, and that he had done Nausicrates harm, but not 
that he had done him wrong.* Or you may admit the 
wrong, but balance it with other facts, and say that, if the 
deed harmed him, at any rate it was honourable ; or that, 
if it gave him pain, at least it did him good ; or something 
else like that. Another way is to allege that your action 
was due to mistake, or bad luck, or necessity — as Sophocles 
said he was not trembling, as his traducer maintained, in 15 
order to make people think him an old man, but because he 
could not help it ; he would rather not be eighty years old.^ 
You may balance your motive against your actual deed ; 
saying, for instance, that you did not mean to injure him 
but to do so-and-so ; that you did not do what you are 
falsely charged with doing — the damage was accidental — ' I 

' to amplify (magnify) or depreciate. 

* Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Ait., Pt. ii, p. 130 (Gorgias). 

* Reading Tp<}n-or, with A% here and in 1 416* 14. [In 1416'' I A" has 
Torror, which should be retained.] For the connexion, or confusion, 
between ronoi and rponos see Bonitz's Index, pp. 767, 772. 

* Baiter-Sauppe, op. cit., p. 219 (Iphicrates). 

* sc. but he was. 



should indeed be a detestable person if I had deliberately 
ao intended this result.' Another way is open when your 
calumniator, or any of his connexions, is or has been subject 
to the same grounds for suspicion. Yet another, when 
others are subject to the same grounds for suspicion but are 
admitted to be in fact innocent of the charge : e. g. ' Must 
'I be a profligate because I am well-groomed?^ Then so- 
and-so must be one too.' Another, if other people have 
been calumniated by the same man or some one else, or, 
25 without being calumniated, have been suspected, like your- 
self now, and yet have been proved innocent. Another way 
is to return calumny for calumny and say, ' It is monstrous 
to trust the man's statements when you cannot trust the 
man himself.' Another is when the question has been 
already decided. So with Euripides' reply to Hygiaenon, 
who, in the action for an exchange of properties, accused 
30 him of impiety in having written a line encouraging perjury — 

My tongue hath sworn : no oath is on my soul.^ 

Euripides said that his opponent himself was guilty in 
bringing into the law-courts cases whose decision belonged 
to the Dionysiac contests. ' If I have not already answered 
for my words there, I am ready to do so if you choose to 
prosecute me there.' ^ Another method is to denounce 
calumny, showing what an enormity it is, and in particular 
35 that it raises false issues,* and that it means a lack of 
confidence in the merits of his case. The argument from 
evidential circumstances is available for both parties : thus 
1416'^ in the Tciicer ^ Odysseus says that Teucer is closely bound 
to Priam, since his mother Hesione was Priam's sister. 
Teucer replies that Telamon his father was Priam's enemy, 
and that he himself did not betray the spies to Priam. 
Another method, suitable for the calumniator, is to praise 
some trifling merit at great length,^ and then attack some 
5 important failing concisely ; or after mentioning a number 

* Reading d, on Kaddpiot, noixos. * Euripides, Hippolyius, 612. 
' Baiter-Sauppe, Or. Alt., Pt. ii, p. 216. 

* Or, ' that it leads from one prosecution (trial) to another '. 
' Sophocles, Teucer, Nauck', p. 256. 

* Reading ro fmuvovpTi kt\. 

BOOK III. 15 1416'^ 

of good qualities to attack one bad one that really bears on 
the question. This is the method of thoroughly skilful and 
unscrupulous prosecutors. By mixing up the man's merits 
with what is bad, they do their best to make use of them to 
damage him. 

There is another method open to both calumniator and 
apologist. Since a given action can be done from many 
motives, the former must try to disparage it by selecting the 10 
worse motive of two, the latter to put the better construction 
on it. Thus one might argue that Diomedes chose Odysseus 
as his companion ^ because he supposed Odysseus to be the 
best man for the purpose ; and you might reply to this that 
it was, on the contrary, because he was the only hero so 
worthless that Diomedes need not fear his rivalry. 

16 We may now pass from the subject of calumny to that of 
Narration. t? 

Narration in ceremonial oratory is not continuous but 
intermittent. There must, of course, be some survey of the 
actions that form the subject-matter of the speech. The 
speech is a composition containing two parts. One of these 
is not provided by the orator's art, viz. the actions them- 
selves, of which the orator is in no sense author. The other 
part is provided by his art, namely, the proof (where proof 20 
is needed) that the actions were done, the description of 
their quality or of their extent, or even all these three 
things together. Now the reason why sometimes it is not 
desirable to make the whole narrative continuous is that the 
case thus expounded is hard to keep in mind. Show^ 
therefore, from one set of facts that your hero is, e. g. brave, 
and from other sets of facts that he is able, just, &c. A 
speech thus arranged is comparatively simple, instead of 
being complicated and elaborate. You will have to recall 25 
well-known deeds among others ; and because they are 
well-known, the hearer usually needs no narration of them ; 
none, for instance, if your object is the praise of Achilles ; 
we all know the facts of his life — what you have to do is to 
apply those facts. But if your object is the praise of 

* Cp. Iliad^ X. 242-7. 


Critias, you must narrate his deeds, which not many people 
know of . . .^ 

Nowadays it is said, absurdly enough, that the narration 

30 should be rapid. Remember what the man said to the 
baker who asked whether he was to make the cake hard 
or soft : ' What, can't you make it right ? ' Just so here. 
We are not to make long narrations, just as we are not to 
make long introductions or long arguments. Here, again, 

3? rightness does not consist either in rapidity or in concise- 
ness, but in the happy mean ; that is, in saying just so much 
as will make the facts plain, or will lead the hearer to 
1417* believe that the thing has happened, or that the man has 
caused injury or wrong to some one, or that the facts are 
really as important as you wish them to be thought : or 
the opposite facts to establish the opposite arguments. 

You may also narrate as you go anything that does 
credit to yourself, e. g. ' I kept telling him to do his duty 
and not abandon his children ' ; or discredit to your 
adversary, e. g. ' But he answered me that, wherever he 
5 might find himself, there he would find other children *, 
the answer Herodotus "^ records of the Egyptian mutineers. 
Slip in anything else that the judges will enjoy. 

The defendant will make less of the narration. He has 
to maintain that the thing has not happened, or did no harm, 
or was not unjust, or not so bad as is alleged. He must 

10 therefore not waste time about what is admitted fact, unless 
this bears on his own contention ; e. g. that the thing was 
done, but was not wrong. Further, we must speak of events 
as past and gone, except where they excite pity or indigna- 
tion by being represented as present. The Story told to 
Alcinous ^ is an example of a brief chronicle, when it is 
repeated to Penelope in sixty lines.* Another instance is 

'5 the Epic Cycle as treated by Phayllus, and the prologue to 
the OeneusJ" 
The narration should depict character ; to which end you 

' There may be a lacuna here in the Greek text. 

* Cp. Herodotus, ii. 30. ' Odyssey, ix-xii. 

* Odyssey, xxiii. 264-84 and 310-43. 

■* Euripides, Oeneus, fragm, 558, 559, Nauck', pp. 536, 537. 

BOOK III. i6 1417* 

must know what makes it do so. One such thing is the 
indication of moral purpose ; the quality of purpose in- 
dicated determines the quality of character depicted and is 
itself determined by the end pursued. Thus it is that 
mathematical discourses depict no character; they have 
nothing to do with moral purpose, for they represent 
nobody as pursuing any end. On the other hand, the 
Socratic dialogues ^ do depict character, being concerned 20 
with moral questions. This end will also be gained by 
describing the manifestations of various types of character, 
e. g. ' he kept walking along as he talked ', which shows the 
man's recklessness and rough manners. Do not let your 
words seem inspired so much by intelligence, in the manner 
now current, as by moral purpose : e.g. ' I willed this ; aye, 
it was my moral purpose ; true, I gained nothing by it, still 25 
it is better thus.' For the other way shows good sense, but 
this shows good character; good sense making us go 
after what is useful, and good character after what is noble. 
Where any detail may appear incredible, then add the 
cause of it ; of this Sophocles provides an example in the 
Antigone, where Antigone says she had cared more for her 
brother than for husband or children, since if the latter 
perished they might be replaced, 30 

But since my father and mother in their graves 
Lie dead, no brother can be born to me.'^ 

If you have no such cause to suggest, just say that you are 
aware that no one will believe your words, but the fact 
remains that such is your nature, however hard the world 
may find it to believe that a man deliberately does anything 35 
except what pays him. 

Again, you must make use of the emotions. Relate the 
familiar manifestations of them, and those that distinguish 
yourself and your opponent ; for instance, ' he went away 
scowling at me '. So Aeschines described Cratylus as l^vf^ 
' hissing with fury and shaking his fists '. These details 
carry conviction : the audience take the truth of what they 

* Cp. Bywater, Aristotle on the Art of Poetry, p. loG. 
^ Sophocles, Antigone, 911, 912. 


know as so much evidence for the truth of what they do not. 
Plenty of such details may be found in Homer : 

5 Thus did she say : but the old woman buried her face 
in her hands : ^ 

a true touch — people beginning to cry do put their hands 
over their eyes. 

Bring yourself on the stage from the first in the right 
character, that people may regard you in that light ; and 
the same with your adversary ; but do not let them see 
what you are about. Ho^v easily such impressions may be 
conveyed we can see from the way in which we get some 
10 inkling of things we know nothing of by the mere look of 
the messenger bringing news of them. Have some narra- 
tive in many different parts of your speech ; and sometimes 
let there be none at the beginning of it. 

In political oratory there is very little opening for 
narration ; nobody can ' narrate ' what has not yet happened. 
If there is narration at all, it will be of past events, the 
recollection of which is to help the hearers to make better 

15 plans for the future. Or it may be employed to attack 
some one's character, or to eulogize him — only then you will 
not be doing what the political speaker, as such, has to do. 
If any statement you make is hard to believe, you must 
guarantee its truth, and at once offer an explanation, and 
then furnish it with such particulars as will be expected.^ 
Thus Carcinus' Jocasta, in his Oedipus^ keeps guaranteeing 
the truth of her answers to the inquiries of the man who is 

ao seeking her son ; and so with Haemon in Sophocles. * 

The duty of the Arguments is to attempt demonstrative 17 
proofs. These proofs must bear directly upon the question 
in dispute, which must fall under one of four heads. (1) If 
you maintain that the act was not committed, your main task 
25 in court is to prove this. {2) If you maintain that the act 
did no harm, prove this. If you maintain that (3) the act 

' Odyssey, xix. 361. 

' Or possibly, ' and then arrange your reasons systematically for 
those who demand them '. But cp. the Scholia (Rabe, p. 248). 
^ Carcinus, Oedipus, N.'^, p. 798. 
* Cp. Sophocles, A)tti^07ie, 635-8, 701-4. 


BOOK III. 17 1417 

was less than is alleged, or {^) Justified, prove these facts, just 
as you would prove the act not to have been committed 
if you were maintaining that. 

It should be noted that only where the question in 
dispute falls under the first of these heads can it be true 
that one of the two parties is necessarily a rogue. Here 
ignorance cannot be pleaded, as it might if the dispute 
were whether the act was justified or not. This argument 
must therefore be used ^ in this case only, not in the 30 

In ceremonial speeches you will develop your case mainly 
by arguing that what has been done is, e.g., noble and 
useful. The facts themselves are to be taken on trust ; 
proof of them is only submitted on those rare occasions 
when they are not easily credible or when they have been 
set down to some one else. 

In political speeches you may maintain that a proposal is ih 
impracticable ; or that, though practicable, it is unjust, or will 
do no good, or is not so important as its proposer thinks. 
Note any falsehoods about irrelevant matters — they will look 
like proof that his other statements also are false. Argument 1418^ 
by 'example ' is highly suitable for political oratory, argument 
by ' enthymeme ' better suits forensic. Political oratory 
deals with future events, of which it can do no more than 
quote past events as examples. Forensic oratory deals 
with what is or is not 7iozv true, which can better be demon- 
strated, because not contingent — there is no contingency 
in what has now already happened. Do not use a con- 
tinuous succession of enthymemes : intersperse them with 5 
other matter, or they will spoil one another's effect. There 
are limits to their number — 

Friend, you have spoken as much as a sensible man would 
have spoken.^ — 

* as mueh' says Homer, not 'as iveW. Nor should you 
try to make enthymemes on every point ; if you do, you 

' Reading xpi'^Ttop with A''. Other MSS. give xpovia-reov, ' must be 
dwelt upon ', ' time must be given to '. 
^ Odyssey, iv. 204. 


10 will be acting just like some students of philosophy, whose 
conclusions are more familiar and believable than the 
premisses from which they draw them. And avoid the 
enthymeme form when you are trying to rouse feeling; for 
it will either kill the feeling or will itself fall flat : all 
simultaneous motions tend to cancel each other either com- 
pletely or partially. Nor should you go after the enthy- 

15 meme form in a passage where you are depicting character 
— the process of demonstration can express neither moral 
character nor moral purpose. Maxims should be employed 
in the Arguments — and in the Narration too — since these 
do express character : ' I have given him this, though I 
am quite aware that one should " Trust no man ".' Or if 
you are appealing to the emotions : ' I do not regret it, 

20 though I have been wronged ; if he has the profit on his 
side, I have justice on mine.' 

Political oratory is a more difficult task than forensic ; 
and naturally so, since it deals with the future, whereas 
the pleader deals with the past, which, as Epimenides of 
Crete said, even the diviners already know. (Epimenides 
did not practise divination about the future ; only about 

35 the obscurities of the past.) Besides, in forensic oratory 
you have a basis in the law ; and once you have a starting- 
point, you can prove anything with comparative ease. 
Then again, political oratory affords few chances for those 
leisurely digressions in which you may attack your ad- 
versary, talk about yourself, or work on your hearers' 
emotions,; fewer chances, indeed, than any other affords, 
unless your set purpose is to divert your hearers' attention.^ 
Accordingly, if you find yourself in difficulties, follow the 

30 lead of the Athenian speakers, and that of Isocrates, who 
makes regular attacks upon people in the course of a 
political speech, e.g. upon the Lacedaemonians in the 
Panegyricus^ ^nd upon Chares in the speech about the allies.^ 
In ceremonial oratory, intersperse your speech with bits of 
episodic eulogy, like Isocrates, who is always bringing some 

' (^liTTfi ; cp. i4o8''36. (^iaTtjrai would mean ' without quitting 
your proper ground ' ; cp. (Kronicrrj, 14 1 4*' 29. 

- IsocTdtes, Piineg., 1 10-14. ^ Cp. lsocTa.tes, De Pace, 27. 

BOOK III. 17 1418* 

one forward for this purpose.^ And this is what Gorgias 
meant by saying that he always found something to talk 
about.* For if he speaks of ^ Achilles, he praises Peleus, 35 
then Aeacus, then Zeus ; and in like manner the virtue of 
valour, describing its good results, and saying what it is 

Now if you have proofs to bring forward, bring them 
forward, and your moral discourse as well ; if you have no 
enthymemes, then fall back upon moral discourse: after all, 1418'' 
it is more fitting for a good man to display himself as 
an honest fellow than as a subtle reasoner. Refutative 
enthymemes are more popular than demonstrative ones : 
their logical cogency is more striking : the facts about two 
opposites always stand out clearly when the two are put 
side by side. 

The 'Reply to the Opponent' is not a separate division 5 
of the speech ; it is part of the Arguments to break down 
the opponent's case, whether by objection or by counter- 
syllogism.^ Both in political speaking and when pleading 
in court, if you are the first speaker you should put your 
own arguments forward first, and then meet the arguments 
on the other side by refuting them and pulling them to 
pieces beforehand. If, however, the case for the other side 
contains a great variety of arguments, begin with these, 
like Caliistratus in the Messenian assembly, when he de- 10 
molished the arguments likely to be used against him 
before giving his own.* If you speak later, you must first, 
by means of refutation and counter-syllogism, attempt 
some answer to your opponent's speech, especially if his 
arguments have been well received. For just as our minds 
refuse a favourable reception to a person against whom they 
are prejudiced, so they refuse it to a speech when they 15 

' Isocratcs has episodic passages on Theseus (Helena 23-38), on 
Paris {Helena 41-8), on Pythagoras and the Egyptian priests (iS'«j;>w 
21-9), on the poets {Busiris 38-40), and on Agamemnon {Pana- 
tlienatcuSy 72-84). 

' Baiter-Sauppe, op. cit., p. 130 (Gorgias). 

' Reading Xt'-y^t (rather than At'-ywi/). 

* More briefly : ' and in Uke manner the value and goodness of that 
great virtue Courage '. 

* Omitting the comma after fVnV. 

* Baiter-Sauppe, op. cit., p. 218 (Caliistratus). 


have been favourably impressed by the speech on the 
other side. You should, therefore, make room in the 
minds of the audience for your coming speech ; and this 
will be done by getting your opponent's speech out of the 
way. So attack that first — either the whole of it, or the 
most important, successful, or vulnerable points in it, and 
20 thus inspire confidence in what you have to say your- 

First, champion will I be of Goddesses . . . 
Never, I ween, would Hera . . . : ^ 

where the speaker has attacked the silliest argument first. 
So much for the Arguments. 

With regard to the element of moral character : there are 
assertions which, if made about yourself, may excite dis- 
35 like, appear tedious, or expose you to the risk of contradic- 
tion ; and other things which you cannot say about your 
opponent without seeming abusive or ill-bred. Put such 
remarks, therefore, into the mouth of some third person. 
This is what Isocrates does in the Philipptis'^ and in the 
Antidosis'^ and Archilochus in his satires. The latter 
represents the father himself as attacking his daughter in 
the lampoon 

Think nought impossible at all, 

Nor swear that it shall not befall . . .* 

30 and puts into the mouth of Charon the carpenter the 
lampoon which begins 

Not for the wealth of Gyges. . . .^ 

So too Sophocles makes Haemon appeal to his father on 

behalf of Antigone as if it were others who were speaking.® 

Again, sometimes you should restate your enthymemes 

in the form of maxims ; e. g. ' Wise men will come to 

35 terms in the hour of success ; for they will gain most if 

* Euripides, Trocuies, 969 and 97 1. 

* Isocrates, Philippus, 4-7. 

' lb., Antitiosis, 132-9, 141-9. 

* Archilochus, fragm. 74, Bergk*, ii, p. 403. The father is Lycambes ; 
the daughter, Neobule. 

* lb., fragm. 25, 15ergk^ ii, p. 390. 

* Sophocles, Antigone, 688-700. 

BOOK III. 17 1418* 

they do'.^ Expressed as an enthymeme, this would run> 
' If we ought to come to terms when doing so will enable 
us to gain the greatest advantage, then we ought to come 
to terms in the hour of success.' 

18 Next as to Interrogation. The best moment to employ 
this is when your opponent has so answered one question 1419* 
that the putting of just one more lands him in absurdity. 
Thus Pericles questioned Lampon about the way of cele- 
brating the rites of the Saviour Goddess,.^ Lampon 
declared that no uninitiated person could be told of them. 
Pericles then asked, ' Do you know them yourself? ' ' Yes *, 
answered Lampon. ' Why,' said Pericles, * how can that 
be, when you are uninitiated ? ' .s 

Another good moment is when one premiss of an argu- 
ment is obviously true, and you can see that your opponent 
must say ' yes ' if you ask him whether the other is true. 
Having first got this answer about the other, do not go on 
to ask him about the obviously true one, but just state the con- 
clusion yourself. Thus, when Meletus denied that Socrates 
believed in the existence of gods but admitted ^ that he 
talked about a supernatural power, Socrates proceeded to 10 
ask whether ' supernatural beings were not either children 
of the gods or in some way divine ? ' ' Yes ', said Meletus. 
'Then', replied Socrates, * is there any one who believes in 
the existence of children of the gods and yet not in the 
existence of the gods themselves ? ' * Another good occasion 
is when you expect to show that your opponent is contra- 
dicting either his own words or what every one believes. 
A fcmrth is when it is impossible for him to meet your 
question except by an evasive answer. If he answers ' True, 
and yet not true', or 'Partly true and partly not true', or 15 
* True in one sense but not in another ', the audience thinks 
he is in difficulties, and applauds his discomfiture. In other 
cases do not attempt interrogation ; for if your opponent 
gets in an objection, you are felt to have been worsted. 

' Cp. Isocrates, Archidamus, 50. ' sc. Demeter. 

^ Reading with Madvig (lpr]K(nos bt ws S.n/ioi'»oi', instead of fXpr^Kiv as 
av Sat/iofioc with Roemer and A°. 
^ Cp. Plato, Apology, 27 c. 

«46J0 O 


You cannot ask a series of questions owing to the incapacity 
of the audience to follow them ; and for this reason 
you should also make your enthymemes as compact as 

ao In replying, you must meet ambiguous questions by 
drawing reasonable distinctions, not by a curt answer. In 
meeting questions that seem to involve you in a contradiction, 
offer the explanation at the outset of your answer, before 
your opponent asks the next question or draws his con- 
clusion. For it is not difficult to see the drift of his 
argument in advance. This point, however, as well as the 
various means of refutation, may be regarded as known to 
us from the Topics} 

35 When your opponent in drawing his conclusion puts it in 
the form of a question, you must justify your answer. 
Thus when .Sophocles was asked by Peisander whether he 
had, like the other members of the Board of Safety, voted 
for setting up the Four Hundred, he said ' Yes.' * Why, 
did you not think it wicked?' — 'Yes.' — ' So yon committed 

33 this wickedness ? ' — * Yes ', said Sophocles, ' for there was 
nothing better to do.' Again, the Lacedaemonian, when 
he was being examined on his conduct as ephor, was asked 
whether he thought that the other ephors had been justly 
put to death. 'Yes', he said. 'Well then', asked his 
opponent, ' did not j'ou propose the same measures as they ? ' 
— 'Yes.' — 'Well then, would not you too be justly put to 

35 death ? ' — ' Not at all ', said he ; ' //tey were bribed to do it, 

and I did it from conviction '. Hence you should not ask 

1419'' any further questions after drawing the conclusion, nor put 

the conclusion itself in the form of a further question, unless 

there is a large balance of truth on your side. 

As to jests. These are supposed to be of some service in con- 
troversy. Gorgias said that you should kill your opponents' 
earnestness with jesting and their jesting with earnestness ; 
5 in which he was right.'^ Jests have been classified in the 
Poetics.^ Some are becoming to a gentleman, others are 
not ; see that you choose such as become you. Irony 

' Top/cs,v\n. * Baiter-Sauppe, ^/) t//., p. 131 (Gorgias). 

^ Not in the existing, /V//^j, Cp. 1372'' i. 

BOOK III. i8 1419'' 

better befits a gentleman than buflToonery ; the ironical 
man jokes to amuse himself, the buffoon to amuse other 

19 The Epilogue has four parts. You must (1) make the 10 
audience well-disposed towards yourself and ill-disposed 
towards your opponent, (2) magnify or minimize ^ the leading 
facts, (3) excite the required state of emotion in your hearers, 
and (4) refresh their memories. 

(i) Having shown your own truthfulness and the un- 
truthfulness of your opponent, the natural thing is to 
commend yourself, censure him, and hammer in your 1.=; 
points.^ You must aim at one of two objects — you must 
make yourself out a good man and him a bad one either in 
yourselves or in relation to your hearers. How this is to be 
managed — by what lines of argument you are to represent 
people as good or bad — this has been already explained.^ 

(2) The facts having been proved, the natural thing to 20 
do next is to magnify or minimize their importance. The 
facts must be admitted before you can discuss how important 
they are ; just as the body cannot grow except from some- 
thing already present. The proper lines of argument to be 
used for this purpose of amplification and depreciation have 
already been set forth.* 

(3) Next, when the facts and their importance are 
clearly understood, you must excite your hearers' emotions. 25 
These emotions are pity, indignation, anger, hatred, envy, 
emulation, pugnacity. The lines of argument to be used 
for these purposes also have been previously mentioned.^ 

(4) Finally you have to review what you have already 
said. Here you may properly do what some wrongly 
recommend doing in the introduction — repeat your points 
frequently so as to make them easily understood. What ?,o 
you should do in your introduction is to state your subject, 
in order that the point to be judged may be quite plain ; in 
the epilogue you should summarize the arguments by which 
your case has been proved. The first step in this reviewing 

* amplify or depreciate (extenuate). 

"^ Or, ' mould your audience to your will.' ' i, c. 9. 

* ii, c. 19. ^ ii, cc. l-ll. 

O 2 

1419'' RHETORIC A 

process is to observe that you have done what you under- 
took to do. You must, then, state what )ou have said and 
why you have said it. Your method may be a comparison 
of your own case with that of your opponent ; and you may 
35 compare either the ways you have both handled the same 
point or make your comparison less direct : ' My opponent 
said so-and-so on this point ; I said so-and-so, and this is why 

1420* I said it '. Or with modest irony, e. g. ' He certainly said so- 
and-so, but I said so-and-so '. Or ' How vain he would 
have been if he had p'roved all this instead of that!' Or 
put it in the form of a question, ' What has not been proved 
by me ? ' or ' What has my opponent proved ? ' You may 
proceed, then, either in this u ay by setting point against 
point, or by following the natural order of the arguments as 

1420^ spoken, first giving your own, and then separately, if you 
wish, those of your opponent. 

For the conclusion, the disconnected style of language is 
appropriate, and will mark the difference between the oration 
and the peroration.^ ' I have done. You have heard me. 
The facts are before you. I ask for your judgement.' - 

^ \6yos, (niXoyos: speech'zxiA after-speech, the words of your speech 
and the words that end it. tiriXoyos is vaguely a conclusion, and its 
length may vary; cp. its use at the beginning of this chapter, and also 
the note on 1414^ i above, 

* Cp. Lysias, Eratosthenes, fin. 


54=* — 99*^= 1354'*— 1 399''. o'' — 20^= 1400*— 1420 

accusation and defence, 58^ 1 1 fF. ; 

esi' I ff. 

Achilles, 59=* 2; 63^19; 78'' 3'; 

80^29; 96'* 26; 96'' 12, 15, 16; 

1^18; 6*' 21, 24; 16^27; 18*36. 
acting and actors, 3^ 31 ff. ; 4* 23 ; 

4»'22; 5^23; 13''", 25, 28. 
actions, voluntary and involuntary, 

actuality (vividness of style), 10^ 

36; ii^24ff. ; 12^32. 
Aegina and Aegiuetans, 96'* 20; 

Aenesidemus, 73" 22. 
Aeschines (Socraticus), 17'' I. 
Aeschylus quoted, 88*7. 
Aesion quoted, 11*25. 
Aesop and Aesop's Fables, 93"' 31 ; 

93^ 10, 23. 
.•\gathon quoted, 92^7 ; 2=^9. 
ages of man : (l) youth, 89'' 3 ff. ; 

(2) prime of life, 90(^29 ff. ; (3) 

old age, 89^14 ff. Happy old 

age, 60^21 ; 61^27 ff. 
Agesipolis (v. 1.), 98^32. 
agonistic style : see under ' comba- 
agreement (covenant), 6c'' 1 5 ; 

agriculture. Si'* 24. 
AJiixoi Theodectes, 99^ 28 ; c^ 28. 
Alcaeus, 67* 9. 
Alcibiades, 90'' 29. 
Alcidamas, mentioned and quoted, 

73^18; [97* 11]; 98^10 ff. ; 6» 

I ff., 18 ff.; 6>'iiff. 
Alcinous, 17* 14. 
Alcmaeon, 97^ 3. 
Alexander (Paris), 63* 19; 97^21; 

98*22; 99*3; i*'2i, 36; 15*1. 
Alexander (the Great) : his (or 

Philip's) supremacy implied in 


Alphesiboea, 97'' 6. 

Amasis, 86'' 20. 

ambiguous language, 7* 32 ff. 

ambition (love of honour), 63'' 2; 
711*29; 79=^35 (ambitious philo- 
sophers) ; 79*^ 24 (the ambitious 

man's rivals) ; 87'' 9, 31-33; 88* 
1,8, 15. 

Amphiaraus, 89* 16. 

amplification and depreciation 
(maximizing and minimizing, 
heightening and lowering, ex- 
tolling and belittling, augmenta- 
tion and lessening), 68* 10, 27 ; 

76" 34,; 3*16; 8*4; 13^34; 

14*5 ; 17^32 ; 19^ 12, dec. 

analogical (reciprocal, propor- 
tional) metaphor, 7*14; 1 1*1 
ff., &c. See ' metaphor '. 

Anaschetos, 12^ 12. 

Anaxagoras, 98^ t6. 

Anaxandrides quoted, 11*19; ' -'^ 
17; 13^26. 

Androcles, o* 10. 

Androtion, 6^27. 

anger, 54'' 17; 78*31 ff- 
antecedent and consequent, 92* 

19 ff 
Antigone of Sophocles, 73^^ 9 ; 75* 

34*; i5i'2o; 17*30; i8'J33. 
Antimachus quoted, 8* 2. 
Antiphon (the poet), 79^^ 15; 85*9; 

99" 2 5. 
Antisthenes quoted, 7^ 9. 
antithesis, 9^ 33 -10'' 5; 10^28- 

31 ; 12^32. 
Aphrodite, o^ 23. 
Apollo, 98''34(' the god at Delphi'), 
apophthegms, 89* 16 ; 94^ 34 ; 

12* 21. 
appropriateness (propriety, deco- 
rum) of style, 4^4 ff. ; 8* 10 ff. 
arbitration )( litigation, 74'' 20. 
Archelaus, 98*24. 
Archibius, 76* 11. 
Archidamus, 6'' 30. 
Archilochus, 98^ 12 ; i8''27 ff. 
Archytas, 12* 12. 

Areopagus, Court of, 54*23; 98^27. 
Ares,drinking-bo\vl of, 7* 17; 13* 

Argos, penalty at, 75*5. 
argument, the universal classes of, 

91'' 29 ff. 
argument, lines of. The many 


arguments, or inferences, sug- 
gested in bk. ii, c. 23 are drawn 
from the following special topics 
(or lines of argument, common- 
places) : opposites, 97*7 ; modi- 
fication {nraxTis, a wider term 
than ' case ' or * inflexion ') of 
the key- word, 97*20; correlative 
ideas, 97^* 23 ; a fortiori, 97*" 
12 ; considerations of time, 97^ 
27 ; turning our opponent's 
words against himself, 98* 3 ; 
definitionof terms, 98*15; ambi- 
guous terms, 98* 28 ; logical 
division, 98* 30 ; induction, 98* 
33 ; previous decision or uni- 
versal consent, 98'' 20 ; taking 
separately the parts of a subject, 
99* 7 ; the consequence, 99* 1 1 ; 
inconsistency, 99*29; rational 
correspondence, 99* 33 ; results 
to antecedents (identity of effect 
to identity of cause), 99^ 5 ; 
inconsistency (again), 99^ 14 ; 
from possible motive to actual 
motive, 99^ 19 ; inducements 
and deterrents, 99** 32 ; things 
which are supposed to happen 
and yet seem incredible, o'6; 
inconsistency (again), o* 15 ; 
possible reasons for prejudice, 
0*23; cause to effect, 0*30; 
neglect of a better course, 0*37; 
inconsistency (again), o^ 4 ; 
mistakes, o^ 9 ; meanings which 
may be attached to proper 
names, 0^17. — Universal lines 
of argument, 58*10 ff.; 9i'^29ff. 

Aristeides the Just, 98*9 ; 14^37. 

Aristippu; , his gentle rebuke to 
Plato when seeming to speak 
too dogmatically, gS'' 30. 

aristocracy, 65^ 30 ff. 

Aristogeiton : see ' Harmodius '. 

Aristophanes in the 'Babylonians', 
5" 30. 

Aristophon, 98*5. 

Aristotle: his references to his 
own works, {\) Analytics, 56*^ 9 ; 
57*30; 57^23; 3*3; 3*13; 
(2) Methodics, 56^19; (3) 
Poetics, 72* 2 ; 4* 39 ; 4^ 7, 28 
{(V jois iTfpi TTOujo-ctos), 5* 6 ; 
(4) Politics, '66* 22 ; (5) Topics, 
56*' 12; 58*28; 96'' 4; 98*28; 


■35; 3*32; 19" 24.- 

Matter for comparison (i) be- 

tween the Rhetoric and the 
Ethics will be found chiefly in 
bks. i, cc. 5-10, and ii, cc. 1-7 ; 

(2) between the Rhetoric and 
the Politics in bk. i, cc. 4, 5, 8 ; 

(3) between the Rhetoric and 
the Poetics in bk. iii, cc. l-il. 

arrangement (rd^tr) of a speech 
in certain divisions, 14*30 ff. 

art should not be measured by 
practical success, 55^ 10 ff. ; 
should be concealed, 4'' 36 ; 17'' 
8.— The Greek word 'art' is 
specially used of a rhetorical 
handbook : e. g. 2* 17 17 KopnKor 

= ' present-day writers on rhe- 
toric ', 56* 1 7 (the term rexvoypd- 
(j)oi is found in the Rhet. ad Al., 
butnot intheyi'/i<?/.). Rhetorical 
terms can, therefore, with special 
appropriateness, be regarded as 
' technical terms ' or ' tenns of 
art'; and the manifold 'arts' 
courses of our universities also 
have linguistic roots in academic 

.A.rtaxerxes the Third, 93'' 2 (' the 
present king 'j. 

artificial speech to be deprecated, 
4'' 19 ; and artificial rhythm like- 
wise, 8^22. 

assault and battery, 72* 22 ; 2* 18. 

asyndeta (words not bound to- 
gether by connective particles), 

8-M; 13^' 19, 33; 20* 7- 
Athenian speakers, i8*3o(cp. 13^ 

l); praising Athenians before 

an Athenian audience, 67*^9; 

1 5'' 32. 
Athens and Epidaurus, 11*12. 
Athens and Salamis, 75^ 30. 
' Attic neighbour ', 95* 21. 
Attic speakers, 13'' I (cp. 18*30). 
audience, three kinds of, 58^ i ff. 
authority of well-known men, 2*^ 9. 
Autocles quoted, 98'' 26. 

baker's question and its answer, 

ball, games at, 71* 2. 

benefits, 6i*28ff. ; 66*38; 67*5. 

Bias, 89^24. 
j birth, good, 60^30 ff. ; 90*" 16 ff. 
I body : itsexcellence is health, 61 ''3. 

Boeotians, 'j*'^, 5. 
' boorishness, 17* 23. 


brutality, 75** 7. 

Bryson, 5^9. 

buffoonery (scurrility), 19'' 8. 

Callias, 5*19. In 56^31 and 82» 
5, Callias = ' anybody', quilibet : 
so Cleon 78^^35; 7*27; 8^26 
(unless in this last passage the 
demagogue is meant) ; Diony- 
sius i*'i3; Hippias 56'' 34; 
Socrates 56^31, 34; 82*6. 

Calliope, 5*33. 

Callippus, 99*16; o=*5. The author 
of an ' Art of Rhetoric ' ; not, it 
would seem, to be identified 
with the Callippus mentioned in 

Callisthenes, 80'' 12, 13. 

Callistratus,64*l9; 74^26; 18^10. 
calmness (mildness, patience, pla- 
cability), 66^^ 2 ; 80* 5 fT. 
calumny : see ' prejudice '. 
Calydon, 9^12. 
Carcinus, o'' 10 ; 17^^18. 
' Carpathian and hare ', 13* 17. 
Carthaginians, 72^28 
case, grammatical [or inflexion, 
word-modification], 64^^33 ; 97* 
20; 10=* 28. 
categories, 85^ 5. 
' Caunian love ', "^ 3. 
causes : seven causes of human 

action, 69^6. 

censure (blame): oVfiSor )( eyKw- 

/itoi', 68* 36 ; ovuhoi )( i-rraivo^, 

74* 22 ; \|/'oyoj )( enaivos, 67* 34 ; 


Cephisodotus, 7*9; 11*6, 23, 28. 

ceremonial oratory: see 'epideic- 

Chabrias, 64*21 ; 11^6. 
Chaeremon,o''25(quoted); 13^13. 
change, pleasure which attends 

it, 71*26. 
character (of speaker, speech, and 
hearer) in its bearing on rhetori- 
cal persuasion, bk. ii, cc. i- iS; 
56*1 ff.; 88>'3off.; 95'' 14 ff. ; 
8*11,25; 17*16; 18*38; 18^23. 
Chares, 76*10; 11*7; ll*'2; 18*32. 
Charidemus, 99^3. 
Charon the contented carpenter 

(in Archilochus), 18'' 31. 
Chians, 98** 12. 
children : possession of good 

children. 60'' 20, 38 fit". 
Chilon, 89'M; 98'' 14. 

Choerilus quoted, 13*4. 
Cimon, 90'* 31. 
circle, periphrasis for, 7^27. 
classes : different classes have 
different ways of expressing 
themselves, 8*26 fF. 
clearness essential to good style, 

Cleon : see ' Callias '. 
Cleophon, 75^^31 ; 8*15. 
cleverness (natural ability), 62'' 24; 

63*35; 90'' 28; 10'' 8. 
climax (building up, accumula- 
tion), 65* 16. 
colours : ' Of the Colours or com- 
mon opinions concerning Good 
and Evil' (Hobbes), 62* 15 ff. ; 
63'' 5 ff. ; 'Of the Colours of 
Honourable and Dishonour- 
able ', 66* 23 ff. ; ' Of the Colours 
concerning Pleasure', 69^33 fit', 
combative (debating) style, I3^4ff. 
Comedy: diminutives used with 
comic effect, 5^ 30 ff. ; comic 
poets as evil-speakers and tell- 
tales, 84^ 10. 
commerce and com mercial treaties, 

common-places: see 'argument, 
linesof '. — Universal and special 
common-places, 58* 10 ff . ; 91^ 
29 ff. 
comparison of cases and argu- 
ments, 19^35 ff. 
composition : a written composi- 
tion should be easy to read and 
deliver, 7''!!. 
compound words, 4'' 29; 5''35 ; 

conciseness of style, 7'' 28, 38; 

i6"»35 ; 19*21. 
conclusion : see ' peroration ', 
confidence, 83* 14 ff. 
conjunctions (connecting words), 

7*21 ; 7^12, 39; I3i>33. 
Conon, 99*5 ; 0^19. 
constitutions : see ' government '. 
contempt, 78^^ 14. 
contracts, 76* 33 ff. 
contrary : objection from a con- 
trary statement, 2^ 4 ; argument 
from contraries, 92*9. 
Corax, 2*17. 
Corinthians, 63* 15. 
cottabus, 73* 23. 

counsel : political counsel aims at 
utility, 62*i7ff. 


courage, 66* i ff. 
cowardice, 66'' 13 ; 68^ 18. 
Cratylus, ly^i. 

craving, 69* I ff. (opt^is XoyiariKf], 

Creon, 75*34- 
Critias, 75^34; 16^29. 
Croesus, 7* 39. 
cupping-glass, 5^3. 
Cycnus, 96'' 17. 
Cydias, 84^ 32. 

Darius, 93*' I. 

* death is an evil ; the gods have 
so judged it, or they would die ' 
(saying of Sappho), 98'' 28. 

decision : objections from previous 
decisions, a** 9 ff. 

defence, national, $9^ 22 ; 60* 6 ff. 

degeneracy of clever and steady 
stocks, 90^ 27 ff. 

degree, topic of, 63^ 5 ff. ; 74^ 24 
ff. ; 97''i2ff. 

deliberative (political, parliamen- 
tary) oratory, 58*36 ff. (i, cc. 
3-8 inch) ; introductory matter 
rare in, 15'' 33 ff. ; narration also 
rare in, 17'' 12 ff. ; more difficult 
than forensic, 18*22 ; character 
of arguments in, I7''34ff. ; its 
style should resemble scene- 
painting, 14*8 ff. 

delivery, 3*' 20 ff.; I3''9ff. 

Delphi, 98'' 32. 

Demades, i''33. 

democracy, 60*25-30; 65** 29-32. 

Democrates quoted, y^y. 

Democritus of Chios, quoted, 9'' 

demonstration, 3* 15 ; 14*37. 

Demosthenes, 97^ 7 ; Demades on 
the policy of Demosthenes {posi 
hoc propter hoc).) 1^34; com- 
parison of the Athenian people 
to sea-sick passengers, 7* 6. 

depreciation : see ' amplification '. 

description by negatives, Anti- 
niachus' means of making style 
impressive : 8* 3. 

desire, 70* 17 ff. 

dialectic, 54* I ; 55*9; 55^16,20; 
56*36; 59'' II, 12; 2*5. 

dicast (juryman, judge), 54*18, 

24, 30; 54*^ 7. 
dice, 71*3. 
dictator, 93'' 22. 
diction :scc 'style' and 'language'. 

diminutives, 5^28 ff. 

Diogenes the Cynic, 11*24. 

Diomedes, 96^15 ; 99^^ 28. 

Diomedon, 97*25. 

Dion, 73*20. 

Dionysius (the despot), 57^ 31 , 34 ; 
85* 10 ; 90^ 29. — Dionysius ' the 
Brazen', 5*32. — Dionysius ( = 
'anybody'), l^ 13. 

Dionysus, 5*23; 7*16; 16*32 

Diopeithes, 86*14. 

dispositions, style that corresponds 
to different, 8* 29. 

distinction of style : see * foreign '. 

dithyrambic poets, 6^1; 13'' 14. 
Anonymous dithyrambic poet 
quoted, 15* 11. 

divagation, 14^ 18. 

diviners, their calculated vague- 
ness, 7'' I. 

divisions of the speech, 14*31 ff. 

Dodonis, 98'' 4. 

dog praised in poetry and proverb, 
1* 15 ff. : cp. 11*24. 

Dorieus, 57* 19. 

Draco 'the lawgiver ', .^''21. 

dramatic turns of fortune, 71*^10. 

draughts, 71*3. 

ecclesiast, 54^ 7. 

education, 65^ 34. — Respect paid 
to educated men, 84*34. 

Egypt and Egyptians, 93* 33; 17*7. 

Elea (men of), o''6. 

element, 58*35; 62*20; 96''2i; 
1*29 (letter); 3*17. 

Elis (men ofj, 16*2, 3. 

emotion : see * passion '. 

Empedocles, 73'' 14; 7*35- 

emulation, 88*31 ff. 

encomium, 67'' 28. 

end, 58b2off. ;■ 62* 18; 63*5; 
63b 16. 

enigmatic sayings, 94^35. 

enmity, 82* 1 ff. 

enthymeme a rhetorical demon- 
stration, 55*6; a sort of syllo- 
gism, 55*6-13; o'>38; a rhe- 
torical syllogism, 56^5; 94*31 
ff. ; 95''2off. ; two kinds of enthy- 
memes, 96*^ 23 ff. ; apparent 
enthymemes, o^ 35 ff. Cp. also 
54*15, 54^^22, 57*14-17,94*26. 

envy, 54*25; 87'' 21 ff. 

ephor, a Lacedaemonian's defence 
of his conduct as, 19*31. 


epic cycle, its treatment by Phayl- 
lus, 17'* 15. 

epic poems, opening lines of, 15* 
15 ff. 

epic poets find uncommon words 
very handy, 6^ 3. 

Epicharmus, 155* 16 (climax) ; 10'' 
4 (false antithesis quoted). 

Epidaurus, 11* 12. 

epideictic (ceremonial, occasional, 
declamatory) oratory : 58^ 2, 
8 ff.; 59*15 ff. ; materials for, 
66*23 ff. ; amplification in, 68» 
23; 14*18 ff., 38; 14*' 22; 15b 
28 ff.; i6b 17 ; 17'' 31 ff. ; l8''33. 

epilogue : see ' peroration '. 

Epimenides, 18*24. 

episodes, 18*33. 

epithet (any word or phrase 
qualifying a proper noun ; not 
simply a single adjective), 5* 10 ; 
5'' 20; 6*loff. ; 7'' 31 ; 8^11. 

equity, 72IM 8; 73'' 18; 74^27ff. ; 
74^ I ff. f 75*31. Cp. Vinogra- 
doff's History of Jurisprudence, 
ii, pp. 63 ff., and Eih. Nic, 

1137*31 ff- 

Krgophilus, 80^ il. 

* eristic ' and the 'eristics', 71*7; 
2*4, 14; 14'' 28. 

'ethical' means of persuasion: 
see ' character '. 

Euboea, 11* 10. 

Eubulus, 76*9. 

Euctemon, 74'' 36. 

eugenics, 90*^ 16 ff. 

euphemisms, 67* 32 ff. 

Euripides and the Syracusans, 
84" 16 ; lawsuit with Hygiaenon, 
16* 29 ; use of everyday langu- 
age, 4*^ 26 ; prologues, 15* 20. — 
(2uoted : 70'' 3 {Andromeda) ; 
71*28 {Orestes, 234); 71'' 32 
{Antiope) ; 94* 29 ff. {Medea, 
29s ff.) ; 94'' I {Sthenelus) ; 94'' 3 
{Hecuba, 864) ; 94'' 1 5 ( Troades, 
1 05 1 ) ; 95 " 29 {Hippolytus, 989) ; 
97* 1 7 ( Thyestes) ; o^ 23 ( Troa- 
des, 990); 5*28 {7'elephus) ; 
S^2i {Orestes, 1587); 7" 34 
{/ph. Taur.,j2'j) ; 9'' 10 {Mel ea- 
ger: but Aristotle attributes the 
line to Sophocles) ; 11^30(7/^. 
AuL, 80); 1 5^' 2 1 {Iph. Taur., 
1162); 16*31 {Hippolytus, 
612); 17*15 {Ocneus); i8''2I 
{Troades, 969). 

Euthydemus, 1*27. 

Euthynus, 92^ 12. 

Euxenus, 6'' 30. 

Evagoras, 99*4, 6. 

Evenus quoted, 70* 10. 

' example ', 56^^ 5, 12; 68*29; 93* 
24 ff. 

exceptional men : the stocks of 
genius continue their yield for 
a while and then decline, 90*^ 
26 ff. 

exhortation, sS^'Sff. 

expediency : see * interest '. 

eye as the seat of shame, 84* 36 ; 
the two eyes of Greece, Athens 
and Sparta, 1 1*6 ; setting things 
before the eyes of hearers and 
readers, 11^23 ff. 

fables, 93* 30 ; 93b 9 ff. 

fact past and future, topic of, 92^ 

fallacious arguments, some causes 
of: (i) language, 1*1, 10; 
(2) confusion of parts and whole, 
I* 24 ; (3) passionate exaggera- 
tion, i'^ 3; (4) a ' sign •, or single 
instance, i''9; (5) an accident, 
i^'iS; (6) the consequence, i** 
20 ; (7) post hoc erpo propter 
hoc,\^lO', (8) omission of time 
and circumstance, i''35; (9) 
confusion of the absolute with 
the particular, 2-' 4. 

farmers, small : 73*8; 81*24. 

favour : see ' kindness *. 

fear, 82*21 ff. 

feeling : see ' passion '. 

fever, 57*^15 ; 70^ 17. 

fickleness of youth, 89*6. 

figure (form, fashion) of wording 
or sentence, 1*7; 8'' 21. 

food-supply, 6o'' 12 (cp. 59'' 22). 

foreign (distinguished) air of style, 
4^36; S'^S; 6*15. 

forensic (legal, judicial) oratory : 
bk. i, c. 3 and cc. 10-15. Also: 
54b 29; 55*20; 14*11, 38; 
14^5; 15''2, 8. 

foretaste of a theme in poetry, 
15* 12. 

fortune, good, 61^39 ff.; 69*32; 
89*1 ; 9i*30ff. 

foul language, 5^ 9 ff. 

fox and the hedgehog, fable of the, 
93*' 23 ff. 

free-running style, 9*24 ff. 


friendship, 6l^ 36 (friend defined) ; 
8o»>35ff. (ii, c. 4); 8 lb 34 (forms 
of friendship).— Friendlessness, 
86*10; possession of few friends, 
many friends, "good friends, 60'' 
20; 6i*>35; 86aio; 88'^ 5. 

frigidities of style (viz. things in 
bad taste that fall flat and are 
'afrost'), 5»'34fif. 

funeral speech, anonymous, Ii'^3l. 

Gelon, 73*23. 

genders, y^ 7. 

generalization, spurious, 95*8. 

geometry, 55'' 29; 4*12. 

Glaucon of Teos, 3'' 26. 

good, its general principles and 
its varieties, 62*21 flf.— relative 
goodness, 63'' 5 AT. 

Gorgias : 4*26 (his poetical prose- 
style); s^^7 (compound words) ; 
6^ 9 (extravagant metaphors) ; 
6^ 1 5 (irony) ; 8^ 20 (irony) ; 14^ 
31 (Olympic Speech); 16*1 
(encomium on the men of Elis) ; 
18*35 (his unfailing fund of 
talk); 1 9'' 4 (earnestness to meet 
jest, jest to meet earnestness). 

government, forms of, 60*21 ff. ; 
65'' 29 ff. 

gratitude : see ' kindness '. 

greatness )( smallness, 59*23 ; 93* 
9 ff. 

Greece, her mourning for those 
who fell at Salamis, 11*31 ff. 
See also ' eye '. 

greed, low, 83^ 26. 

Greek : to use clear and correct 
Greek, 7* 20 ff. 

Haemon : ' the Haemon of Sopho- 
cles ', 17^20. 

Halys, 7* 39. 

happiness, 60^ 8, 14 ff. ; 62'' 10. 

Harmodius and Aristogeiton, 68* 
18; 97^28; I* II. 

hatred, 82* i ff. 

health, 6oi'2i ; 6i''3 ff. ; 62'> 14. 

hearer, 54b 32 ; 58* 37 ff- ; 4*8, 1 1 ; 
8^6; 15*26, 34; i5b6, 16- 
18, 29. 

Hector, 80^ 28 ; 96^ 17 ; 97b 23. 

Hecuba, ob 22. 

hedgehog and theYox, fable of the, 
93b 23 ff. 

Hegesippus (vv. 11. Hegesipolis, 
Agesipolis), ySb32. 

Helen, 99*2 ; lb 36. 
Heracleidae, 96* 14. 
Heracleitus, 7b 14. 
Hercules, the pillars of, 88* 10. 
heredity, 90'' 25 ff. 
Hermes, 1* 20, 21. 
Herodicus, 6ib 5 • 0'^ 19. 
Herodotus quoted, 7*39; 9*28; 

heroic (viz. hexameter) rhythm, 


Hesiod quoted, 88* 17. 

Hesione, i6b2. 

hexameter poems, writers of, 4*35. 

Hiero, 91* 10. 

Himera, 93b n. 

Hipparchus, ib 12. 

Hippias, 56b 34 (for 'anybody'). 

Hippolochus, 68* 17. 

historical examples, 93*29. 

historical researches, 60* 36. 

Homer, 63*19; 75b 30; 98b 13; 

11'' 32; i6b 12-15. Quoted: 62b 

35 (//.i.255);63*6(//. ii. 160); 

63*8 (//. ii. 298); 65*12 (//. ix. 

592); 65*30 (<9^. xxii. 347); 

70b 5 (Od. XV. 400) ; 70b II (//. 

xviii: 109); 70b 28 (//. xxiii. 108 ; 

l)/i. iv. 183); 71b 16 (Od. xvii. 

218) ; 78b 5 (//. xviii. 109) ; 78b 

32 (//. i. 356); 78b 34 (//. ix. 

648); 79*5 (/^- ii- 196); 79*7 

(//. i. 82); 80*24, 25 (cp. Od. 

xiv. 29-31) ; 8ob23 [Od. ix. 504) ; 

80b 29 (//. xxiv. 54) ; 87* 34 (//. 

xi. 542j ; 95* 14 (//. xii. 243) ; 

95* 16 (//. xviii. 309) ; 6b 24 (cp. 

//. XX. 164, 442, 445); 10*31 

(//. ix. 526) ; I lb 33 {Od. xi. 598) ; 

I lb 35 (//.xiii. 587); I lb 37 (//. 

iv. 126) ; 12* 1 (//, xi. 574) ; 12* 

3 (//. XV. 542); 12*9 (//. xiii. 

799); 13*31 (//.ix. 385) ; 14*3 

(//. ii. 671); 15*16 (//. i. i); 

15*17 {Od. i. I); 15b 27 (Od. 

vi. 327) ; 17*14 (cp. Od. xxiii. 

264-84, 310-43); 17^5 (Od. 

xix. 361) ; iS* 8 (C>^. iv, 204). 
homoeoteleuton, iob2. 
homonyms, 1*12; 4b 38; 12b- 12. 
honour, 58b 28 ff. ; 60b 22 ; 61* 28, 

34; 66*35. 
horse and the stag, fable of the, 

' housewiferie without 

nesse', 61* 7 (note). 
Hygiaenon, 16*29. 



hyperbole, 13* 19 ff. — Cp. also 63* 
2; 67^6. 

iambic metre, 4*31; iambic 
rhythm, 8*^ 33 ff. 

Ida, 1^22. 

Idrieus, 6'' 27, 29. 

Ilium, 96^ 13. 

imagination (impression, fancy), 
70a 28, 30; 70^33; 71*9; 78'' 
9; 83'' 17; 4*11- 

impressiveness of style, 7^ 26 ff. 

incommensurability of diagonal of 
a square with its side, 92" 18. 

incontinence, 66'* 15 ; 83*' 23 ; 84* 

independence of life, 60^ 14. 

indigenous (aboriginal), 60'^ 30. 

indignation, feeling of righteous, 
86'' 9 ff.— Rhetorical indigna- 
tion, 95^9; 1^3; 17*13; 19^ 

induction, 56^ I ff. ; 93'' 27; 94* 

13; 98''33- 

inflexions : see 'case'. 

injustice, bk. i, cc. 10-14. 

insolence, 78^ 15, 23. 

inspired: poetry an inspired thing, 

interest (expediency), 58'" 22 ff. ; 
62^18 ff. ; 63^7; 75^13; 76^ 
29; 89*35. 

interest (on money), li* 18. 

intermarriage, 75* 10. 

interrogation, 18*^ 39 ff. 

introduction (proem), 54^18; 14^ 
2, 12,19; 1 5*' 24, 35, 39; 16^34. 

Iphicrates, 65* 28; 67** 17; 97'' 27; 
98*5, 17 ; 99^" 34; 5*19; II* 
II ; II* 1 ; 16* 10. 

irony, 79^^ 31, 32 ; 82* 21 ; 8* 20; 
19*8 ; 20*2. 

irrelevance, 54*15, 22; 54*27; 

Ismenias, 98° 3. 

I Socrates, 68*20; 92*10; 99*2, 
4; 99*10; 14*33 ; 18" 31, 34- 
Speeches quoted or mentioned : 
68*4 [Eva^. and Panath.) ; 8* 
1 5 [Paneg.) ; 9* 34 and 10* 1-17 
{Paneg.); 10*29 {Philipp.) ; 
II* 30 [Philipfi.); II* II ff. 
[Patteg.); 11*28 ff. (Philipp.); 
12*6 [Philipp., Paneg., De 
Pace); 14*27 {Hel.)\ 14*33 
{Pa/ict;.); iS*^ 31 (Pa/'eg.); iS-^ 
32 [De Pace) ; 18*26 [Philipp. 

and Aniid.); 18*35 [Archida- 

issues, legal, 54* 30 ; 58* 32 ; 74* 

2 ff. ; 16*8 ff. ; 17'* 9 ff. ; 17* 

25 ff. 
Isthmian games, 6* 21. 
Italiots (Italian Greeks), 98* 15. 

Jason of Thessaly, 73* 26. — Jason 

(the hero), o'' 14. 
jests, 72* I ff. ; 19* 3 ff. 
Jocasta, 17* 18. 
judge: the judge decides some 

live issue, 58*3 ff. ; 9i*8ff. 
juryman : see ' dicast '. 
juryman's oath, 75*17; 76*19; 

justice, 58*25; 62*12; 66*1, 

9 ; and cc. 10-14 (in book i). 
Genuine )( counterfeit justice, 
75" 6. 

key-note, 14*24 ; 15*8. 
kindness, 81*35 ; 85* 15 ff. 
kingship, 66* 1'. 
knuckle-bones, game of, 71*2. 

Lacedaemon, Lacedaemonians, 
Laconian, 61*10; 67*29; 67* 

10 ; 94*34; 98^14, 18; II* 5; 

Lampon, 19* 2. 

Lampsacenes (men of Lampsa- 
cus), 98* 16. 

language, appropriate and ex- 
pressive, 8* 16 ff. ; everyday 
language, 4* 24. 

laughter and things ludicrous, 71* 

35; 15M6; I9"3ff. 
law : special or general, 68* 7 ; 
particular and universal, 73* 4. 
How laws are to be used in 
accusation and defence, 75* 
25 ff. Unwritten law, 68* 9 ; 

73'' 5 ; 74* 19 ff-; 75*15 ff-; 

75.*' 7- 
leading men at Thebes take to 

philosophy, and the State 

prospers, 98* 19. 

lecture: 'to pop in a bit of the 
fifty-drachma show-lecture (the 
extra-special fifty-shilling-lec- 
turc, as distinguished from the 
ordinary shilling-lecture) ', 15* 

legal oratory : see 'forelisic'. 


legislation and lawgiver, 54* 29 ; 

54*' 2, 5. 15; 59'' 23; 60*19. 
Leodamas, 64" 19 ; o* 32. 
Leptines quoted, 11'* 5. 
Leucothea, o^ 6. 
liberality, 66'' 2, 7, 15. 
Libyan, 93* 31. 

Licymnius, 5''6 ; 13^ 14 ; 14'' 17- 
literary style {written prose), 13'' 

4 ff. — literary people, 98^ 15. 
litigious people, 73*35. Cp. o^^ 

Locri, 95* I. 

ludicrous: see * laughter'. 
Lyceum, 85*27. 
Lycoleon quoted, \\^ 6. 
Lycophron, 5*'35; 6*7; iC^ 18. 
Lycurgus, 98*^ 18. 
lyre, a chordless, 13* I. 
Lysias quoted, 99'* 19 ; 20* 8. 

madness : great wits to madness 

near allied, 90'' 29. 
magnanimity, 62^12; 66^' 2, 17; 

)( smallness* of spirit, petty- 

mindedness, 66'^ 19. 
magnificence, 62'' 13 ; 66'' 2, 18, 

19; )( meanness, 66'' 19. Applied 

(by some writers) to style, 14* 

maintenance, public, 61^36. 
Mantias * the orator ', 98'' 2. 
Marathon, 96''^ 14. 
mat in the Lyceum, 85^^ 28. 
mathematical discourses, destitute 

of moral character, 17"'' 19. 
maxims, 93*^25 ; 94=^19^".; 95*6; 

95'' 13; 3''35; i8'^i7; 18'' 34. 

Medea of Carcinus, o'' 10. 

Melanippides, 9'' 26. 

Melanopus, 74** 25. 

Meleager, 79'' 15 ; 99'' 25. 

Meletus, 19*8. 

memory, 61* 34 (memorial re- 
cords), 62'' 24. 

messenger, an inkling of the news 
he brings, 17'' 9. 

Messenian speech, 97*11; Mes- 
senian assembly, 18'' 1 1. 

mess-rooms of Attica, 1 1* 24. 

metaphor, 4'' 32 — ^ 20 ; 6'' 5 fif , 
20 ; 7* 12 ; 7'' 31 ; 10'' 13 ; 
12* 10 ff., 18 ff. Metaphor, in 
its modern sense, is Aristotle's 
'analogical' or 'proportional' 
metaphor : cp 7* 14 ; S'' 8 ; 11* 
I ; 11'' 22; 12'' 5. 

metre, 61=^ 35 ; 8'' 21 —19* 19. 

mildness : see ' calmness '. 

Miltiades, li* il. 

mistakes, 72'' 18; 74'' 7 (errors of 
judgement); argument from mis- 
takes, o''9. 

Mixidemides, 98'' 26. 

Moerocles, 11* 16. 

monarchy, 65'' 38. 

money, love of, 63'' 2 ; 64'' i ; 89* 

moral purpose, 55'' 20, 21; 66* 
15; 74'' 13; 17^25. 

more and less, the topic of 
degree, 93^^ 9 ff. 

motives for wrong-doing, 68'' 
28 ff. ; good and bad motives 
may be suggested for one and 
the same act, i6''9 ff. 

mule-race, 5'' 24. 

' Mysian prey ', 72'' 33. 

mysteries, their etymological con- 
nexion with ' mouse ', i'' 14. 

Mytilenaeans, 98'' 13. 

name used instead of description, 

7'' 28. 
narration, 54'' 17 ; 14* 37 ; 14'' 14 ; 

16'' 16. See also ' stntement '. 
nature, 69* 35 ; 70* 4 ; natural 

)( acquired, 65 -"^ 29. 
Nausicrates, 16'"^ 10. 
necessary )( contingent actions, 

57^ 23 ff. 
negatives : see 'description '. 
Nicanor, 97'' 7. 
Niceratus, 13*7. 
Nicon, 12*34. 
Nireus, 14*3. 

nobility : see ' birth, good '. 
noisy (or, sonorous) poets — of the 

writers of dithyrambs, 6'' 2. 
nouns and verbs, 4'' 26 ff. 
number, grammatical inflexions 

denoting, 7'' 9. 

oaths, 77*8 ff. 
obeisance, 61*36. 
objections, 2* 35 ff. ; 3* 31. 
obscurity of style, one cause of, 

7'' 21 ff. 
obvious (enthymemes), 10'' 22. 
Odysseus, 99'' 29 ; o* 28 ; 16'' 2, 



Odyssey, 6'» 12. 

Oeneus, 97'' 20 ; 17^16. 

offences : deliberate purpose the 
test of a criminal offence, 74=^ 11. 

oligarchy, 65'' 33. 

Olympia, 65^ 25 ; 67^ 18 ; 98'' 33. 

Olynthiac War, ii'^'j. 

onlooker (spectator, detached 
observer, critic) at an epideictic 
speech, 58^2, 6; 91^^17. 

opinions, common : see ' colours '. 

opposites, 97* 7. 

oracles, 7" 37. 

Orestes of Theodectes, 1=^ 35. 

paean, 9=^ 2 ff. 

pain, Ss^^io ff. 

painting, 71'' 6. 

Palamedes, 13^27. 

Pamphilus, o* 5. 

Pan, 1*16. 

pancratiast, 61^ 26. 

paradox, viz. contradiction of 
common opinion, 99=^ 23. 

parallel, illustrative, 93* 30 ff. 

Paralus, il* 14. 

parenthesis, 7^ 21 ff. 

Parians, 98" 1 1. 

Paris : see ' Alexander '. 

parisosis, io'^24 ; 12** 32. 

parliamentary oratoiy : see ' de- 
liberative '. 

paromoeosis, 10*25. 

passion (emotion), 54* 17 ; 56*14, 
19, 24; 69'' 15; 78*2off. ; 96*" 
33; 8*10 (passionate, emotional, 
language), 16, 24; 17* 36.— 
passion (anger), 69^ 1 1 ; 89* 9, 
10, 27 ; 90* II. 

past, known even to diviners (a 
bon mot of Epimenides) : 18* 

' pastime ', 6^ 36. 
patience : see ' calmness '. 
Patroclus, 59* 4 ; 97^ 22. 
' Peace ', the ' Common ', 99'^ 13. 
Peiraeus, l''28; 11" 15. 
Peisander, 19* 27, 
Peisistratus, 57'' 31. 
Peitholaus, 10* 17 ; ii'^ 13. 
Penelope, 17* 14. 
pentathlos (all-round athlete), 61** 

10, 26. 
Pentheus, o^ 26 (quotation). 
Peparethus, 98*33. 

Periander, 75*^ 3i- 

Pericles, 65" I ; 90'' 3^ ; 7* I ff- ; 

11*2, 15; 19*2. 
period, 9* 35 ff.— With short mem- 
bers, 9^*31 ; with long members 
(of the speakers themselves), 9^ 
30; with a single member, 9'' 
17; period-mark (a sort of full 
stop), 9* 20 ; periodic (com- 
pact) style, 9* 26. 
perjury : see ' witness, false '. 
peroration (epilogue), i9^Ioff. : 

cp. notes on 14'* i and 20'' 5. 
persuasion : modes of persuasion 
(or belief, assurance), 54* 13 ff. ; 
54^21; 5S''35ff-; 58*1; 66* 
9ff. ; 75*22ff. ; 3''7ff.; M^" 
36 ff; 17^21 ff. ; i8b8ff Cp. 
note on 54* 13 : * suasions ' or 
' persuasives' might perhaps be 
ventured in EngHsh. 
Phalaris, 93^9 ff. 
Phayllus, 17* 15. 
Philammon, 13* 13, M- 
Philemon, ' the actor ', 13*^ 25. 
Philip (of Macedon), 97^31- 
Philocrates quoted, 80^ 8. 
Philoctetes, 13*7. 
Philomela, 6^^ 17. 

philosophy : the Greek word 
' philosophy ' is in 94* 5 used in 
the vague sense (common in 
Isocrates) of ' culture ', 'intel- 
lectual training ', ' study \ The 
<^iXd(ro(/)of , or ' lover of wisdom ', 
was regarded as a lifelong 
Phocians, 98* i. 
Pindar, quoted 64* 28 ; 1* 16. 
pirates call themselves 'purveyors' 

or 'providers ' : 5*25. 
pitch (of voice), 3'' 29 ; 13^31. 
Pittacus, 89*16 ; 2''I2. 
pity, 54* 17, 25; 85bi2ff. ; 4^ 

14 ; 19^25. 
placability: see ' calmness '. 
Plato, 67'' 8 and 15'' 31 {Menex., 
235 D);. 76*10 (disputed 
whether the philosopher or the 
comic poet); 98*i5ff. and 19'* 
8-12 {Apology, 27 c-E) ; 98'' 30 
(Aristippus' rebuke) ; 6'' 32-8 
(Republic, v. 469 E, vi. 488 A, x. 
601 b) ; 8'' 20 {Phaednis) ; 17* 
21 (' Socratic dialogues ' :^ they 
may be grouped here), 
playsaspocket-companions, is'' 12. 


pleasantries (smart, lively, pointed 
sayings), lo'' 7 ff. ; iz'^ 18 ff. 

pleasure, 69'' 33 flf. — The pleasure 
experienced in learning some- 
thing new, 71^4 ff. ; 10° 10 ff. 

Plexippus, 79'' 15. 

poetry, 7ii>7 ; 3b 25 ; 4,» 28 ; 4^ 
4 ; S^SS; 6'»i2, 30; 6^1, 10 — 
The ' old poets ', 9* 26. — Homer 
is '^/te poet', 65=* 11, 30, &c. ; 
in 71^31 Euripides is so called. 

political oratory : see ' delibera- 
tive '. 

polities: see 'government '. 

Pol us, o^ 20. 

Polycrates, 1*34; i'' 16. 

Polyeuctus, 11* 21. 

Polyneices, 7^^ 10. 

possible arvd impossible, topic of ; 
92a 8 ff. 

pos/ hoc ergo propter hoc, topic 
of, 1^30 ff. 

post-narration, 14^14. 

post-refutation, 14'' 15. 

Potidaea, 96* 20. 

power, characteristics of, 91* 
20 ff. 

praise, 58^12 ff. ; 67^21, 27; 74* 

Pratys, 13*8. 

prejudice (calumny, slander), 54* 
16; 82=»2; I5''27; l6''4. 

prelude, 14^22, 24. 

pre-narration, 14^15. 

Priam, 16^ 2. 

prizes, 66^ 34 ; 3^32; 14^35. 

probability, 57*32; 76*18; 2^ 

13 ff 
Prodicus, is'' 16. 
prodigality, 67'' 2; 90^ I. 
proem: see 'introduction', 
professorial dogmatism, alleged 

against Plato, 98*^ 30. 
prologue, 14'' 20; IS'^Q. 

proof, 57^4 ff-; 3^ioff-; 3* I5- 
See also ' persuasion '. 

proper, applied to terms (whether 
nouns or verbs) that are current 
and ordinary, 4*^ 6. 

proportional : see ' metaphor '. 

propositions (premisses), 58* 18 ff.; 
59* 8 ff. ; 91^ 25 ff.— A mere 
proposition (thesis, theory, ima- 
ginary case), gi** 14. 

propriety : see ' appropriateness '. 

prose, 6i» 35 ; 4^14, 33- 

Protagoras, 2* 25 ; 7'' 6. 

proverbs, 76^ 2 (proverbs as evi- 
dence) ; 95'' 20 (as maxims) ; 
1 3* 1 5 (as metaphors). Particu- 
lar proverbs (in prose or 
verse) : 62'' 38, ' evils draw 
men together '('misery acquaints 
a man with strange bed-fellows'. 
Tempest, Act ii, Sc. 2) ; 63'' 7, 
' to break the pitcher at the 
door' ('labour lost', 'many a 
slip*, &c.) : the verse-quotations 
in the same passage may also 
be regarded as proverbial ; 66'' 
38, ' benefits of all kinds on all 
occasions'; 71*28, 'sweet is 
variety', '' gratae vices''', 71'' 
15-17, 'mate delights mate', 
' like to like ', ' beast knows 
beast ', 'jackdaw to jackdaw ' 
(' crabbed age ', ' birds of a 
feather ', &c.) ; 72'' 33, ' Mysian 
prey ' (i.e. an easy prey, a 
helpless victim); 73*3, 'wicked- 
ness needs but a pretext ' ; 76* 
5. 'never show an old man kind- 
ness ' ; 76* 7 (and 95* 19), ' Fool 
who slayeth the father ', &c. ; 
81'' 17 (and 88* 17), ' potter 
against potter' ('two of a 
trade'); 83'' 25, 'to pick a 
corpse's pocket ', ' to rob the 
dead ' ; 84* 36, ' shame dwells 
in the eyes ' ; 88* 7, ' kin can 
even be jealous of their kin ' ; 
95* 2 and 12* 23, ' cicalas chirp- 
ing on the ground'; 95*14, 
' the one best omen is our 
country's cause ' : this line, and 
perhaps the half-line in 95* 16, 
may be reckoned a proverb as 
well as a maxim; 95* 16, 'the 
War-God showeth no favour ' ; 
95*21, 'an Attic neighbour'; 
99* 26, ' to buy the marsh with 
the salt' ('to take the fat with 
the lean ') ; o* 1 2- 1 5, ' fish need 
salt ', and ' olive-cakes need 
oil'; !» 19-21, 'the dogless 
house ', and ' open-handed 
Hermes' (' Shares ! ') ; 2" 3, 
'Caunian love'; 13*17, 'the 
Carpathian and the hare ' ; 13'' 
29, ' the man who carries the 
beam ' (' stiff as a poker', * the 
man who swallowed a poker '). 
prudence, 66'' 3, 20 ; 78* 9- 
punctuation, 7^^ 13 ; 9* 20. 


punishment, 69^' 12. 

puns, o''i7 ff. ; 12^33' ff.: see 

' significant'. 
Pythagoras, 98'' 16. 

'queenly fig-tree', 8'' 15. 

ramification, 14^ 18. 

rare words : see * strange *. 

rations (metaphorical use), 11*10. 

read : easy to read (of a written 
composition), 7^ 11. 

recapitulation, 14^2. 

recitation, 3'' 23 ; 4* 23 ; 13* 9. 

recrimination, i6'^27. 

refutation, o^ 27 ; 2* 30 ff. ; 3=^ 
25 flf.; I4i'i5. 

reply to an adversary's questions, 
1 9* 20 fif. 

retaliation, 73"^ 10 fif. ; 82^ 10 ff. 

retort, 98*3 ff. ; 19^2 flf. 

revenge, 69^ 12. 

revenues, 59^24 ; 96* 11. 

Rhadamanthus, 13^ 27. 

Rhetoric is an art, 54*11; its 
relation to dialectic, 54*1, 55^ 
9; 56"* 25, 31; 56^35; to 
ethical and political studies, 56* 
25, 26 ; to logic and sophistic, 
59^ 9 ff. ; to eristic, 2*4 ; enthy- 
memes, the substance of rhe- 
torical persuasion, are neglected 
by current text-books in favour 
of non-essentials, 54*11-16; 
the enthymeme a rhetorical 
demonstration and a kind of 
syllogism, 55*6-8; political 
oratory neglected in favour of 
forensic which lends itself to 
less worthy methods, 54*^22-9; 
use and abuse of rhetoric, 55* 
21 ff. ; no separate name for 
the unscrupulous rhetorician, 
55^ 18-21 ; definition of rhetoric, 
55'' 25 ; rhetoric deals with the 
regular subjects of debate, which 
admit of alternative possibilities, 
56'' 35 ff. ; its three divisions, 
58*36 ff.; subjects of political 
rhetoric, 59* 30 ff. ; the whole 
study of rhetoric is concerned 
with appearances, 4* i ff. 

rhetoricians (public speakers), 18* 
30 ('at Athens'); 131^1 
(' Attic ') ; 4* 17 (' who excel in 
delivery '). Ambiguity of the 
term, 55'* 20. 

rhythm, 3'' 30 ; 8'' 2 1 ff. 
riddles, 94>'35 ; 5* 37 ff 
ridicule : see 

' laughter '. 

Salamis, 75^30; 96*13; 11* 32. 

Samos and the Samians, 84^ 32 ; 
93^ 23, 32 ; 7* I. 

Sappho, 67*8; 98^ 13, 28. 

sayings, smart : see ' pleasantries '. 

sceue-painting or, more strictly, 
a drawing in light and shade, 
a large clnarosairo sketch, 14* 

science (and sciences), 54* 3 ; 59'' 

10, 13,15. 17, &c. 

Sciron, 6*8. 

sculpture, 71'' 7. 

Scythians, 67^ 10. 

seats, chief, 61* 35. 

secundation, 14^17. 

self-control, 61*7 ; 62^ 12 ; 66'' I, 
13 ; 90*14. 

self-criticism (show of, useful 
device in speaking), 8^3. 

self-love, 71'' 20, 21 ; 89^36. (In 
Aristotle 0iXavTor is not neces- 
sarily a term of reproach : cp. 
Eth. Nic. ix. c. 8, and Pol. ii, 
c. 5, 1263'' 2-5.—' Selfish ' is not 
an ancient word in English). 

senate (at Lacedaemon), 98'' 15. 

sepulchres, 61* 35. 

Sestos, II* 14. 

shame, 83^^ 12 ff. 

shoes, parts of, 92* 30-2. 

Sigeans (men of Sigeum), 75^*31. 

significant names, o''i7 (puns to 
us to-day ; to the Greeks, as to 
John of Gaunt, much more than 

'signs ', 57^1 ff. ; i'' 9. 

similar causes likely to have simi- 
lar results, 60* 5. 

similes, 6'' 20 ; 7*13, 14 ; 10'' 16- 
18; I2i'33. 

Simonides quoted, 63* 15 ; 65* 
25 ; 67^' 19; 91*8; 5*'23 ; Ii*^ 

slander : see ' prejudice '. 

slapdash, casual, random way of 
speaking, 8*12 ; 15^39. 

slighting (contempt), 78*" 10 ff. 

Socrates, 67^8 ; 90'' 31 ; 93** 4; 
98*24; 98i>32; 99*7 ; 15b 31 ; 
17*21 ('the Socratic dialogues' 
or 'discourses'); 19*8. [In 


56'' 31 and 34 ' Socrates ' means 
' anybody '.] 

solecism, 7'' 18. Cp. 9i''4, where 
the corresponding adjective is 
used of vulgar, rude, outlan- 
dish, barbarous persons, — 

Solon, 75'' ss ; 98^' 17. 

soothsayers : see * diviners '. 

sophist, 55^20; 4^38; 19'' 14, 

Sophocles, 98*4 (his Teucer), 1^ 
19 (his 'A;^nia)i/ crvXXoyos) ; 16''' 
15 (his reply to an imputation). 
Quotations, or references to 
passages, 73^9 {Ajitig., 456); 
75*34 (Aniig., 456) ; o^ 17 
(Fragm.)\ 15*21 (Oed. Tyr., 
774); I5''2o(.,4«//^., 223) ; 16^ 
I {Teucer) \ 17*30 {Aniig., 
911); 17^20 (cp. Antig., 
635-8, 701-4) ; 18^33 {Ani'ig., 
688 ff.); 9^9 (? by Euripides). - 
The sayings in 74^ 36 and 
19*26 are usually attributed to 
another Sophocles. 

sordidness (meanness), 61* 7 ; 66'' 
16; 88^26, 31. 

sound )( sense, ^^ 7. 

speech, characteristic of man, 55'' 
I (the human voice is the most 
imitative — apt at representa- 
tion—of all our organs, 4*22). — 
speech (oration), divisions of a, 
bk. iii, cc. 13-19. 

speech-writers, 8* 34. 

Speusippus, 11* 22. 

spite, 78^ 14 ; 82*2. 

spring, loss of the spring from 
the year, 65* 32 ; 11* 2. 

stag and the horse, fable of the, 
^l^ 13 ff. 

Stasinus quoted, 76* 7 ; 95* 19. 

statement (of a case), 14* 35 ff. 

statues, 61* 36 ; 68*18; 10^33. 

stature, an advantage in men and 
women, 60^22; 61*6; 61^ 

Stesichorus quoted, 93^ 9 ; 94^ 35 ; 

Stilbon, 98^ 4. 

stock-subjects of eulogists of 
Athens, 96* 12 ff. 

stocks (breeds of men) : how they 
flourish and then decay, 90'' 

25 fir. 

Strabax, 99* 2. 

strange (rare, unfamiliar, foreign) 
expressions, 4'' 28 ; 6* 7 ff. ; 10" 
12. Cp. Poetics 1457'' 3, 4. 

strength,6o^27 ; 61^ 15 ff. ; 83^2. 

style (diction) : 4'' i (good prose 
style defined) ; 4* 28 and 4^ 4 
(prose style and poetical style 
are distinct). Qualities of 
style : iii, c. 2 (general : meta- 
phor particularly) ; iii, c. 5 
(correctness) ; iii, c. 6 (impres- 
siveness) ; iii, c. 7 (appropriate- 
ness : including the expression 
of emotion and character and a 
due correspondence to subject- 
matter) ; iii, c. 1 1 (liveliness) ; 
9^ 33 ff. (antithesis) ; 4^ 19 
(naturalness )( artifice) ; iii, c. 9 
(free run of the sentence )( 
antithetic compactness). Bad 
taste (' frigidity ') of style : iii, 
c. 3. Appropriate style for 
each kind of oratory, whether 
written (literary, epideictic) or 
the oratory of debate (political 
or forensic), iii, c. 12. The 
reason why oratorical prose at 
first took a poetical colour, 4-' 

suggestion, 68^ 2 ft. 

surprise : the ' surprise-joke ' 
which takes you in, \2^ 28. 

suspicion : old men are suspicious 
of evil, 89^ 22. 

syllogism, 55*8; ss'' 16 ; 56^ i ff. ; 

57^7ff-; 71^9; 96^5 (argu- 
ment, reasoning) ; 2* 5 ff. — 
Counter-syllogism, 2* 31 : cp. 

synonyms, 4^* 39 — 5* 2. 

Syracusans, 84'' 16. 

taste, bad : see 'frigidities '. 

' technical ' and ' non-technical ' 

modes of persuasion, 55^ 35 ff. ; 

cp. ' art ' above. 
Telamon, 16^ 3. 
Telephus, 5* 28. 
Tenedos, 75^30; i'' 19. 
tetrameters, trochaic, 4*31 ; 9*1. 
Teucer, 98" 4; 16'' i. 
Teumessus, S^ 3. 
Theagenes of Megara, 57^*33. 
Thebes, 97^^ 9 ; 98'' 3, 19. 
Themistocles, 76* i. 
Theodamas, 6^ 30. 


Theodectes, 97^3 {A/o/iaeon} ; 

98^ 6 (Lino) ; ^g'' 8 (Socrates) ; 

99^* I {Law) ; 99^ 28 {Ajax) ; 

o^aS {Ajax); 1=^35 {Orestes). 

— The Theodectea is mentioned 

in 10^3. 
Theodorus, (l) the rhetorician, o'' 

16; 12*25, 34; 14^14; (2) the 

actor, 4^ 22. 
Theseus, 63* 18 ; 97'' 21 ; 99* 3. 
Thettaliscus, 98^ 5. 
Thirty (Tyrants), the, o* 18, 34 ; 

thought (as distinguished from 

wording and arrangement), 3* 

36; 4^19. 
Thracian, 12^ 2. 

Thrasybulus, c* 33 ; o'' 19 ; i=» 34. 
Thrasymachus, o^ 20 ; 4^^ 14 ; 9* 

2; 13'' 8. 
Timotheus, the dithyrambic poet, 

7*^ 17 ; 13=* I. 
topics: see 'argument, lines of. 

— For Aristotle's Topics see 

' Aristotle '. 
torture (the ' question '), ^€° 31 ff. 
tragedies and tragic poets, 3^ 22 ; 

6*> 16; 15* 19. 
travel, books of travel (round the 

world), 60'' 34. 
travel- money (metaphorical use), 

II* 10. 
trespass (encroach) on state-owned 

land, 74* 5. 
trochaic tetrameters, 4* 31 ; 8^ 36 ; 

9* I. 
trochee, 8^' 36. 
Tyndareus, sons of, 97^ 23. 
tyranny (autocracy, absolute and 

usurped power) and tyrants, 57^ 

31 ff. ; 66*6 ; 72'' 2. 

universal classes of argument, 91^ 

unwritten laws and principles of 

justice, 681^9 ; 73'^ 5 ; 74* 19 ; 

75''i5, 17, 35; 75'' 7. 

variety, 71* 25 fF. ; 13'' 22 flf. 
virtue and vice, described and 

analysed, 66* 23 ff. 
vividness (vivacity) of style: see 

' actuality '. — Lifeless things are 

vivified by metaphor, as in 

Homer, 1 1 ''32 ff. 

voice, 3^27 ; 4^ 22; S'' 7. 

vulgarity of outlook (lack of intelli- 
gence and refinement), 95'' 2 
(cp. 4"^ 8). 

war and peace, 59''2i, 33 ff. 

ways and means, 59^ 23. 

weakness of will, 68'' 14 ; 72'' 13 ; 
92'' 24. 

wealth and the wealthy, 60" 20; 
62'' 18 ; 90'' 32 ff. ; 87*23 and 
91* 16 (the newly rich) ; 87*24 
(men of ancient wealth) ; 91* 
17 (to be newly-enriched means 
no education in riches) ; 61*23 
(wealth consists in using things 
rather than in owning them). 

well-born, character of the, 90** 
16 ff. Cp. also 60^^ 30 ff. 

wines, mixed (doctored), 4^^ 21. — 
Cp. 2 Maccabees xv. 38, 39, for 
another literary application of 
the wine-and-water metaphor. 

wisdom, 66'' 3171'' 28. — Practical 
wisdom (prudence, good sense, 
intelligence), 64''l2ff. ; 66'' 3, 
20; 78*9, 13, 16. 

wit is well-bred insolence, 89'' n. 

witnesses, various kinds of, 75'' 
26 ff. — False witness, 75* 12 ; 
76* 20. 

women, their bodily and mental 
excellences, 61* 5 ff. ; their poor 
condition at Sparta, 61* 9 ff. ; 
their inferiority to men, 67* 

wonder, 71*31— 71'' 10; 71'' 28.— 

Wonder (the Greek word 
3nvfid(fiv implies both the feel- 
ing that a thing is remarkable — 
as being at once fine and mys- 
terious — and also the curiosity 
that makes men want to under- 
stand and explain it) is regarded 
by Plato {Theaet. 155 D) and 
Aristotle {Meiaph. 982'' 12 ff.) 
as the origin of learning and 
philosophy. — For the inference, 
and new knowledge, drawn from 
the surprise which a work of 
art excites, cp. Poetics 1448'' 

words, beauty of, ni, c. 2 ; com- 
pound words, 5'' 35 ff., 6=* 35 ; 
strange words, 6* 7. 

world : the world's imputation of 


self-interest as the master- 
motive, 17*35. 

worse : to put the worse, or the 
better, construction on any- 
thing, 16^ II.— Men are no 
better than they should be, 82^^ 

written speeches or discourses 
('literature'), 4*18; 13^4-. 

wrong-doers and their victims. 

characters of, i, c. 12 ; wrong- 
doing, i, cc. 10-14. 

Xenophanes, 77" 19,23; 99'' 6; 

Xerxes, 93^ 2 ; 6* 7. 

youth, 89* 3 flf. 

Zeno, 72'' 5. 

zeugma, 7'' 19-21. 

Zeus (at Olympia), 98^ 34. 





p a 



The text used for this translation is that of L. Spengel 
as revised by C. Hammer and published under the title of 
'Ai/a^tfieuov9 Tix^t] 'PjjTopiKrj in Rhctorcs Graeci, vol. i 
(Leipzig, Tcubner, 1894). Though the division of the 
chapters corresponds with that of Bekker, the numbering 
begins only after the Introductory Letter, which is Bekker's 
first chapter. 

Since the date of the Teubner Text fragments of a 
papyrus found at Hibeh were published in 1906 by Messrs. 
Grenfelland Hunt {Hibeh Papyrus, Pt. I, No. 26, pp. 114-38). 
These fragments cover the following passages in Bekker's 
text: 1422=^ 25-^^ 9 ; ''15-22; ''35-i423\37 ; HH"" 21-'' 17 ; 
"39-1425^5; » 17-25; 1426^ 3 1 -'^30; '•36-1427'^ 2. The 
papyrus is dated by Messrs. Grenfell and Hunt in the first 
half of the third century B. c. and is thus seventeen cen- 
turies older than any of our MSS., which belong to thefifteenth 
and sixteenth centuries. As might be expected, therefore, 
it exhibits a large number of divergences, but very few of 
these are such as to make any important differences of 
meaning; the readings of the papyrus have, therefore, only 
been noted where they materially affect the translation. 

The authorship of the Rhetorica ad Alexandrum has 
been the subject of considerable discussion. The suggestion 
that it is to be attributed to Anaximenes of Lampsacus, 
a slightly older contemporary of Aristotle, was first made 
by Petrus Victorius on the strength of a statement of 
Quintilian {Inst. Orat.^ iii. 4. 9). This view was adopted 
by Spengel, who, in an extremely arbitrary manner, 
altered the text at 1421'' 7 and 1432'' 8 in defiance of all 
the MSS., in order to reduce the number of genera of oratory 
from three to two, so as to harmonize with Quintilian's 
account of Anaximenes. These emendations are not only 
unlikely in themselves, but are contradicted by the whole 


arrangement of Chapters 1-5 and 3.^-7, where the author 
clearly deals with three genera, each with two species, and 
' inquiry ' as an extra species. In view of these facts the 
MS. reading has been retained in these passages. 

Now Aristotle in ihe Rhetorica (1358*36 fif.) recognizes 
the three genera and is stated by Quintilian {Itist. Orai., 
iii. 4. i) to have been the first to do so ; the question 
therefore arises whether the Rhet. ad Alex, can be the work 
of Aristotle himself. Mr. T. Case (article on 'Aristotle ' in 
Encycl. Brit.^ nth ed.) argues that it is a genuine work 
of Aristotle of a somewhat earlier date than the Rhetorica. 
Against this it may be urged that the doctrine of the Rhet. 
ad Alex, shows a development as compared with the 
RJutorica in the addition of a species which the latter does 
not recognize.^ Further, it is difficult to conceive that any 
one who reads the two treatises side by side can come to 
the conclusion that the writer of the Rhet. ad Alex, is 
identical with the author of the vastly superior Rhetorica. 

Amongst others who have discussed the question of the 
authorship of the Rhet. ad Alex., Mr. E. M. Cope {Introdtic- 
tion to the Rhetoric of Aristotle, pp. 413 ff.) is on the whole 
inclined to think that the treatise may possibly be the work 
of Anaximenes, but he thinks that the name of Anaximenes 
on the title-page of Spengel's edition ' should be replaced by 
the more modest " Anonymus '" '. Heitz (O. Miiller- 
Heitz, Gesch. dergriech. Lit., ii, p. 287) and Susemihl {Gesch. 
der griech. Lit. in der Alexandrinerzeit, ii, p. 451) agree in 
the opinion that the Rhet. ad Alex, is the work of a writer of 
the early third century B.C. Hammer {Rhet. Grace, vol. i, 
pp. iv-v) considers the question undecided, but, while he 
implies that there is much to be said for the view of Heitz 
and Susemihl, states that he has retained the name of 
Anaximenes out of deference to Spengel. The editors of the 
Hibeh Papyrus are of opinion that 'the new discovery goes 
far to overthrow Susemihl's position and weaken his objec- 
tions to the previously accepted conclusions of Spengel '. 
They do not, however, offer any proofs in favour of the 

' Unless indeed Aristotle in the Rhetorica deliherately ignored the 
species of ' inquiry'. 


Anaximenean authorship or make any allusion to Spengel's 
changes in the text, and unfortunately neither of the 
passages in which these occur is included in the frag- 
ments of the papyrus. They are of opinion that a fourth- 
century date for the treatise maybe regarded as established, 
though this, they say, does not prove that its author pre- 
ceded Aristotle. It is to be noted that an exactly contem- 
porary papyrus found at Hibeh (No. i6) is probably a frag- 
ment of Theophrastus irept vSaro^. 

We shall probably not be far wrong if, accepting a date 
slightly anterior to 300 B. c, we attribute the work to a 
Peripatetic writer contemporaneous with Theophrastus. 
The treatise has certainly many points of contact with the 
Rhetorica and assumesand supplements Aristotle's classifica- 
tion ; it is written from a more practical and less philosophic 
standpoint and in the spirit of Socrates rather than of Aristotle. 

My best thanks are due to the Editor of the series, 
Professor W. D. Ross, who has read through the translation 
both in MS. and in proof, to my colleague Professor W. C. 
Summers, who has read it in MS., and to Professor W. Rhys 
Roberts, who has read it in proof ; all of whom have made 
valuable suggestions and corrections. 

E. S. F. 

The University, Sheffield. 
Nov. 14, 1923. 

20*-47'' = I420*-H47^ 






































26.1 1 
























2 9''t 




















51. II 























































8, .17 
























96. 10 









loi. 17 








[Introductory Letter to Alexander.] 


1. The genera of oratory — deliberative, epideictic, forensic. The 
species of oratory — persuasive, dissuasive, eulogistic, vitupera- 
tive, accusatory, defensive, inquisitive, (i) Deliberative oratory : 
persuasion and dissuasion. 

2. The subjects of deliberative oratory. 

3. (2) Epideictic oratory: eulogy and vituperation. 

4. (3) Forensic oratory : accusation and defence. 

5. Inquir)'. 

6. Elements common to every branch of oratory : 

(i) Appeals to the just, the lawful, the expedient, the noble, the 
pleasant, &c. 

(2) Amplification and minimization. 

(3) Proofs. 

(4) Anticipations, postulates, iterations, elegances of speech, 
length of speech, explanation. 

7. Proofs: (i) Direct, (2) Supplementarj'. 

(1) Direct: 

(a) Probabilities. 

8. (b) Examples. 

g. (c) Infallible signs, 

so. (d) Enthymemes. 

11. (e) Maxims. 

12. (f) Fallible signs. 
^3- (g) Refutations. 

14. The differences between the various kinds of direct proof. 

(2) Supplementary : 

(a) Opinion of the speaker. 

15. (b) Testimony. 

16. (c) Evidence given under torture. 

17. (d) Oaths. 

18. Anticipation. 

19. Postulates. 

20. Iteration. 

21. Irony. 

22. Elegance of speech and length of speech 



23. The composition of word b. 

24. Statement. 

25. Clearness in speaking. 

26. Antithesis. 

27. Parisosis. 

28. Paromoeosis. 

29. The Proem. 

30. Narration. 

31. The arrangement of material. 

32. Confirmation. 

33. Methods of Anticipation. 

34. Methods of Persuasive and Dissuasive Oratory. 

35. Methods of Eulogistic and Vituperative Oratoiy. 

36. Methods of Accusation and Defence. 
2)7. Methods of Inquiry. 

38. Miscellaneous precepts : the epilogue. 


[Aristotle to Alexander. Salutation.^ 1420^5 

You write that you have often sent persons to me to urge 
upon me the project of noting down for you the principles 
of public speaking. It is not through indifference that I have 
put off doing so all this time,^ but because I was seeking 10 
how to write on this subject with more exactitude than 
any one else who has concerned himself therewith. It was 
only natural that I should have such an intention ; for just 
as you are desirous to have more splendid raiment than 
other men, so you ought to strive to attain to a more 
glorious skill in speech than other men possess. For it is 
far more honourable and kingly to have the mind well 15 
ordered than to see the bodily form well arrayed. For 
verily it is absurd that one who in deeds excels all men 
should in words manifestly fall short of ordinary mortals, 
especially when he knows full well that, whereas among 20 
those whose political constitution is democracy the final 
appeal on all matters is to the law, among those who are 
under kingly rule the appeal is to reason.^ Just as their 

* It has been universally admitted by the editors that the Introductory 
Letter to Alexander is unsatisfactory, and from the time of Erasmus 
onwards it has been usually pronounced to be a forgery. E. M. Cope 
{Introduction to the Rhetoric of Aristotle, p. 401) says that never did 
a spurious document more manifestly betray itself by want of skill and 
inappropriateness in the composition. Paul Wendland, however, 
in Hermes, xxxix (1904), pp. 499 ff., argues that the Letter in the form 
in which it has come down to us is the t)riginal Letter of Introduction 
written by Anaximenes, adapted by a later forger who wished that the 
work should obtain currency under the name of Aristotle. 

* Or perhaps' all these years', averylateuseof xpo«"'$' ; see Wendland, 
1. c, p. 500 and his note. 

' It is impossible in a translation to bring out the double meaning 
of 'word ' and ' reasoning ' which is present in Adyoy. 


public law always directs self-governing communities along 
the best path, so might reason, as embodied in you, guide 
along the path of their advantage those who are subject to 

35 your rule. For law can be simply described as reason 
defined by the common consent of the community, 
regulating action of every kind. Furthermore, I think that 
you are well aware that we praise as good men and true 
those who employ reason and prefer always to act under its 

30 guidance, while we abhor as savage and brutish those who 
i42o''5 act in any matter without reason. It is for this cause ' too 
that we punish wicked men when they show their wicked- 
ness and admire the good when they display their virtue. 
Thus we have discovered a means of preventing possible 
wickedness, while we enjoy the benefits of existing goodness. 

10 In this way we escape annoyances which threaten us and 
secure advantages which we did not previously possess. 
Just as a life free from pain is an object of desire, so is wise 
reason an object of contentment. 

Again, you must realize that the model set before most 
men is either the law or else your life and the expression of 
your reason. In order therefore that you may excel all 

15 Greeks and barbarians, you must exert yourself to the 
utmost, so that those who spend their lives in these 
pursuits,^ using the elements of virtue in them to produce a 
beauteous copy of the model thus set before them, may not 
direct themselves towards ignoble ends but make it their 
desire to partake in the same virtue. 

^o Moreover, deliberation is the most divine of human 
activities. Therefore you must not waste your energies on 
subordinate and worthless pursuits, but desire to drink at 
the very fountain-head of good counsel. For what man of 
sense could ever doubt that, while it is a sign of foolishness 

25 to act without deliberation, it is the mark of true culture to 
accomplish under the guidance of reason anything that 
reason commands ? It is plain to see that all the greatest 
politicians of Greece resort to reason first and then to deeds, 

» fim roGro (DOV). 

^ i.e. those who make your life and reason their guide. Buhle is 
probably wrong in interpreting vfp) rnvru as /// Icgibus fcrendis. 


and further that those who have won the highest repute among 
the barbarians have employed reason before action, knowing 30 
full well that the consideration of expediency by the light 1421* 
of reason is a very citadel of salvation. Yea, it is reason 
which we must regard as an impregnable citadel, and not 
look on any fortress built by man as a sure safeguard. 

But I hesitate to say another word, lest I should seem to 
be writing for effect, bringing forward proofs of facts which 5 
are fully known as though they were not generally admitted. 
I will therefore say no more, after mentioning only one topic, 
in enlarging on which one might spend one's whole life, 
namely, that reason is the one thing wherein we are superior 
to all other animals,^ we who have received the highest 
honour which heaven can bestow. For all animals display 10 
the appetites and desire and the like, but none save man 
possess reason. Now it would be most strange if, when it 
is by virtue of reason alone that we live happier lives than 
all other animals, we should through indifference despise 
and renounce that which is the cause of our well-being-. 
Though you have long been exhorted thereto, I urge you 15 
to embrace with the utmost zeal the study of reasoned 
speech. For just as health preserves the body, so is educa- 
tion the recognized preserver of the mind. Under its 
guidance you will never take a false step in anything that 
you do, but you will keep safe practically all the advantages 20 
which you already possess. Moreover, if physical sight is 
a pleasure, to see clearly with the eyes of the soul is a thing 
to be admired. Again, as the general is the saviour of his 
army, so is reason, allied with education, the guide of life. 
These, then, and like sentiments I think I may well dismiss 35 
at the present moment. 

In your letter you urge me not to let this book fall into 
other hands than yours, and this knowing full well that, 
just as parents love their own offspring more than 
supposititious children, so those who have invented some- 
thing have more affection for it than those to whom the 30 
discovery is merely imparted. For men have died in 

' Omiuing with most editors (and Wendland, I.e., p. 502) tovto 
ovv , . . avfijimno)}', and putting a comma after (wur. 


defence of their words,^ as they would die for their offspring. 
For the so-called Parian Sophists, because what they teach 
is not of their own production, in their gross indifference 
feel no affection and barter it away for money. Wherefore 

35 I exhort you to watch over these precepts, the children of 
my brain, that while they are yet young they may be 
corrupted ^ by no man, and, sharing in your well-ordered 
life, when they come to man's estate, may win unsullied^ glory* 
Following the lesson taught by Nicanor,^ we have adopted 
from other authors anything on the same subjects which 

^o was particularly well expressed in their treatises. You will 
1421'' find two such ^ books, one of which is my own," viz. the 
Oratorical Art which I wrote for Theodectes,'' while the 
other is the treatise of Corax.^ The other points** 
connected with public and forensic exhortations have all 
been dealt with specially ^° in these treatises. So in these 
5 commentaries written expressly for you you will find 
material for amplifying these two treatises.^^ Farewell.] 

^ Reading ovra for tovtu)v as suggested by Spengel. 

'^ Omitting ^PW""' (read by most MSS. after firjSfios, 1. 36). 

^ It seems unnecessary to change the MS. reading aKTiparov to ayr^pdrov. 

* See Heberdey, Festschrijtfilr Th. Gomperz (Vienna, 1 902), pp. 4 1 2 ff. 
® i.e. according to Wendland, I.e., p. 505, 'useful books', for which 

ToiovToii would be expected and should perhaps be read ; but rofro is 
somewhat similarly used for toiovto in 1421*^37. 

^ f'/xoj' is here, according to Wendland, substituted by the adapter of 
the Introduction for 'ApjoroTeXour of the original. 

■' On this early oratorical work of Aristotle see Rhet. \i^\o^ 2 ; Cope, 
Inirod. (1867), p. 57 ; Diels, Ueber das dritte Buck der Aristot. Rhet. 
(Proceedings of the Berlin Academy, 1886), p. 12 ; and Mayer, 
Theophrasttis nepl Xe^ecos, Prolegomena, pp. xxxvii-xlvii (where it is 
argued that part of this work is preserved in the Afwnyini Tix*"] toC 
noKiTiKov \6yov), 

* For this work see R/ieL 1402* 17 ; Cicero, Brutus, 12 ; Blass, Att. 
Bereds., i, pp. 19, 20; and Wendland, I.e., pp. 509-13. 

' i. e. according to Wendland, ' those which I have not adopted 
from them '. 

'" i.e. by different methods from those employed in the present 
treatise and in the prevalent mode of rhetoric (Wendland). 

" Wendland paraphrases : 'Daher wirst du beide aus meiner Schrift 
berichtigen und erganzen konnen.' 

CHAPTER I 1421" 

I Public speeches fall into three classes, deliberative, epi- 
deictic, and forensic.^ They are of seven kinds, being em- 
plo}'ed in persuasion, dissuasion, eulogy, vituperation, accusa- 
tion, defence, and inquiry either by itself or in relation to some- 10 
thing else.^ Such are the different kinds of discourses and 
their number. We shall employ them in public harangues, 
in lawsuits about contracts, and in private conversation. 
We shall treat of them most conveniently if we take them 
each separately and enumerate their qualities,^ their uses,* 15 
and their arrangement.^ And first let us discuss persuasion 
and dissuasion, since they are used most of all in private 
conversations and in public harangues. To speak generally, 20 
persuasion is an exhortation to some purpose or speech 
or action, while dissuasion is the prevention of some purpose 
or speech or action. Such being the definition of these 
words, he who persuades must show that those things to 
which he exhorts are just, lawful, expedient, honourable, 
pleasant, and easy of accomplishment. Failing that, when he 25 
is exhorting to that which is difficult, he must show that it 
is practicable and that its execution is necessary. He who 
dissuades, by pursuing the opposite course, must exert 
a hindering influence, showing that the proposed action is 
neither just nor lawful nor expedient nor honourable nor 
pleasant nor practicable ; if he cannot do that, he must 30 
urge that it is toilsome and unnecessary. All actions can 
have both these sets of attributes applied to them,*^ so that 
a man who can urge neither of these two sets of fundamental 
qualities ^ is at a loss for anything to say. It is for these 
qualities therefore that those who seek to persuade or 
dissuade must look. I will now attempt to define them one 

' Reading with all MSS. rpla ytvr) . . .t6 fih SrjfiriyopiKov, TO o (niSfiKTi- 
Kov, TO Se 8ik(ivik6p. Spengel omitted t6 5' ('niSfiKTiKov in order to reconcile 
the division here given with that ascribed to Anaximenes by Quintilian 
{Insi. Orat., iii. 4. 9, Anaximenes iudicialem et contionalem generales 
partes esse uoltdt, septem autein species, &'c^ and thus support his 
theory of the Anaximenean authorship. A similar division into three 
tihi] is given by all MSS. in 1432'' 8, where see note. 

* For the meaning of ' inquiry' {(^(Toais) see below 1427^ 12. 

' Chapters 1-5. * Chapters 6-28. " Chapters 29-38. 

' i. e. every action is just or unjust, lawful or unlawful, &c. 

' i.e. justice, lawfulness, &c., or injustice, unlawfulness, &c. 


35 by one and show whence we shall supply them for our 

That which is just is the unwritten custom of all or the 
majority of men which draws a distinction between what is 
honourable and what is base. We may take as examples* 
the honouring of parents, doing good to one's friends, and 
returning good to one's benefactors. These and similar 

40 duties are not enjoined upon mankind by written laws, but 
1422* they are observed by unwritten custom and universal 
practice. So much for just actions. 

Law is a common agreement made by the community, 
which ordains in writing how the citizens ought to act 
under every kind of circumstance. 

Expediency is the safeguarding of existing advantages, 
5 or the acquisition of those not already possessed, or the 
riddance of existing disadvantages, or the prevention of 
harm which threatens to occur. For individuals you can 
divide up expediency according as it applies to the body or 
the mind or external possessions. For the body, strength, 
beauty, and health are expedient ; for the mind, courage, 

10 wisdom, and justice. External possessions are friends, 
wealth, and property. The contraries of these are in- 
expedient. For a community such things as concord, 
strength for war, wealth, a plentiful supply of revenue, and 
excellence and abundance of allies are expedient. In 
a word we look upon anything of this kind as expedient 

15 and the contrary as inexpedient. Honourable things arc 
those from which good repute and creditable distinction 
will accrue to the doers. Pleasant things are those which 
cause joy. Easy things are those which are accomplished 
with the least expenditure of time, trouble, and money. 
Practicable things are all those which admit of performance. 

20 Necessary things are those the execution of which does not 
depend upon us but takes place as it were by some necessity 
divine or human. Such, then, is the nature of things just, law- 
ful, expedient, honourable, easy, practicable, and necessary. 
It will be easy to speak about such subjects by the use of 
the arguments mentioned above and by arguments analogous 
' Sauppe reads toioCto for toxto, but see note on 142 1'' i. 

CHAPTER I 1422" 

to them and by arguments opposed to them and by 25 
employing judgements pronounced by the gods or by men 
or by judges of repute ^ or by our opponents. 

We have already described the nature of that which is 
just. The following are cases where there is an analogy to 
that which is just : ' As we consider it just to obey parents, 
on the same principle it behoves sons to imitate the actions 3° 
of their fathers' ; or again, * As it is just to do good in 
return to those who do good to us, so it is just to abstain 
from harming those who have done us no ill '. It is by this 
method that we must get analogies to justice. Then we 
ought to make the example itself ^ clear by taking the con- 
trary case : * As it is just to punish those who do us a wrong, 35 
so it behoves us to do good in return to our benefactors '. 
You will discover what is just in the judgement of men of 
repute by a consideration such as the following : ' Not only 
do we hate and do harm to our enemies, but the Athenians 40 
also and the Lacedaemonians judge that it is just to punish 
their enemies.' By following this system you will often 
discover what is just. 

We have already defined the nature of that which is 1422'' 
lawful. When it serves our purpose we must introduce the 
legislator himself and his law and any case of analogy to 
the written law. For example, ' As the lawgiver punishes 5 
thieves with very serious penalties, so we ought to inflict 
heavy chastisement on those who deceive, for they steal 
away the understanding'; or again, 'Just as the lawgiver 
has made the nearest relatives the heirs of those who die 
childless, so I ought in the present case to have authority 
over the possessions of a freedman ; for since those who set 10 
him free are dead and I am the nearest relative of the 
deceased persons, I am justified in assuming control over 
their freed men.' This is an example of the way in which 
an analogy to that which is ordained by law is obtained. 
The following is an illustration of what is contrary to that 
which is -lawful: ' If the law prohibits the distribution of 15 

^ Reading vtt' dvdpamav i? In eV av Kpirai with the Hibeh Papyrus 
(quoted hereafter as n). 

' aiiTo t6 Trapabeiynn (MSS.). 
« n 


public property, it was clearly the judgement of the lawgiver 
that all who divide up such property are doing wrong ; for 
if the laws ordain that those who govern the state well and 
justly should be honoured, they clearly regard those who 
make away with public property as deserving of punishment.' 
The nature of the lawful is thus clearly shown by taking 

20 cases of the contrary. It can be demonstrated from previous 
judgements by a consideration such as this : ' Not only do 
I hold that the lawgiver made this law to cover such cases as 
these, but on a former occasion, when Lysithidas gave an 
explanation similar to that which I am now putting forward, 
the jury voted in favour of this interpretation of the law.' 
By this method we shall often be able to demonstrate what 
is lawful. 

25 The nature of the expedient itself has already been 
defined. We must, in addition to the subjects already 
mentioned,' introduce the expedient, wherever it is available, 
into our arguments and often bring it to light, pursuing 
the same method which we employed for the lawful and the 

30 just. The following would be instances of analogies to the 
expedient: 'As in war it is expedient to station the bravest 
men in the front rank, so in the state it is advantageous that 
the wisest and justest men should be the leaders of the 
people ' ; or again, ' As it is expedient for the healthy to be 

35 on their guard against disease, so too in communities which 
live in harmony it is expedient to provide against 
possibilities of faction.' By following this method you will 
be able to make many analogies to the expedient. The 
expedient will also be clear if you take contrary cases such 
as the following : ' If it is advantageous to honour good 
citizens, it would be expedient also to punish the wicked ' ; 

40 or again, ' If you think it inexpedient that we should make 
1423* war unaided on the Thebans, it would be expedient to make 
the Lacedaemonians our allies and then make war on the 
Thebans.' This is the method by which you will 
demonstrate the expedient by arguing from the contrary. 
You can discover what has been judged to be expedient by 

Reading fitra tup irpofiprjfitvtov (i.e. 8tK(nov and pofii/jLop), suggested 
by W. Kroll in /?//. Afus., Ixxi (191 1), p. 161. 

CHAPTER I 1423* 

judges^ of repute by considerations such as the following : 
' The Lacedaemonians, when they had conquered the 5 
Athenians, thought it expedient not to enslave their city, 
and on another occasion the Athenians and Thebans,^ when 
it was within their power to depopulate Sparta, thought it 
expedient to allow the Lacedaemonians to survive.' 

By pursuing this method you will have plenty to say 
about the just, the lawful, and the expedient. You must 
employ the same methods in the case of the honourable, the 10 
easy, the pleasant, the practicable, and the necessary. We 
shall thus have abundant material on these topics also. 

2 Next let us determine the number, the character, and the 
names of the subjects which we discuss in the council- 
chamber and in the popular assembly. If we have a clear 15 
knowledge of these, the actual circumstances will provide us 
with something appropriate to say on each occasion when 
we are giving advice. If we have long been familiar with 
the characteristics common to each class of subject, we shall 
always be able to apply them readily in practice. We must 
therefore distinguish the various subjects about which all 
men hold public deliberation. 

To sum the matter up, there are seven subjects on which 20 
we shall speak in public.^ For whether we are addressing 
the council or the people, we must necessarily deliberate and 
speak about either sacred rites or laws or the political con- 
stitution or alliances and contracts with other states or war 35 
or peace or the provision of resources. These, then, are the 
subjects about which we shall deliberate and address the 
people. Let us take each of them separately and see how 
they can be treated in a speech. 

There are three ways in which we must deal with the 
subject of sacred rites ; for we shall urge either that they 3° 
ought to be retained in their existing form, or that they 
ought to be changed ^ so as to be more magnificent or else 
less sumptuous. When we are maintaining that the existing 

' Reading with n In' fvho^oiv Kpnoiv. 

"^ Adding /^era Qri^aiwv after 'Adqvaioi with n. 

' Cp. /?/i<?/. i359''2o ff., where a somewhat different list is given. 

* Reading with n eVl t6 iKyaXonptnearfpov fifTaaraTtov ij . 

Q 2 


form should be retained, we should derive material from 
the argument of justice, urging that it is regarded by all 
men as unjust to transgress the customs of our forefathers, 

35 and that all the oracles command men to make their 
sacrifices according to the usages of their forefathers, and 
that it is of the utmost importance that the religious 
observances should be continued which were prescribed by 
those who originally founded cities and set up temples to 
the gods. On the ground of expediency we shall urge that, 
1423^ if the sacrifices are offered according to ancestral usage, it 
will be expedient either for individuals or the community 
at large in view of the payments of money which will be 
involved, and that it will benefit the citizens by creating 
a feeling of self-confidence ; for if heavy-armed troops, 
horsemen, and light-armed soldiers join in a religious 
procession, the citizens, priding themselves on such things, 
5 would feel greater confidence in themselves. It can be 
urged on the ground of what is honourable, if it results in 
the spectacle of splendid festivals ; on the ground of pleasure, 
because a variety in the sacrifices to the gods is introduced 
into the spectacle ; and on the ground of practicability, if 
neither defect nor excess has characterized the celebration. 
Thus when we are speaking in support of the existing state 

10 of affairs, we must pursue our inquiry by the above or 
similar methods and treat the question under discussion as 
the nature of the subject permits. 

When we are advising a change to greater magnificence 
in the celebration of sacred rites, we shall have a plausible 

15 pretext for altering- ancestral usages, if we urge that an 
addition to existing rites involves not their destruction but 
their extension ; again, that it is reasonable to suppose that 
the gods are more favourably disposed to those who honour 
them more ; again, that even our fathers used not to perform 
their sacrifices always in the same way, but regulated their 
service to the gods, both as a community and as private 
individuals, according to the occasion and their own 

30 prosperity ; again, that this is a principle which we follow in 
all other matters in the government of our cities and our 
private establishments. You must also mention any 

CHAPTER 2 1423" 

advantage in brilliance or enjoyment which is likely to 
result to the city from the alteration, following the methods 
which we have described above. 

When we are urging a reduction of the scale of our 
sacred rites, we must in the first place direct our remarks to »5 
the circumstances of the moment and show in what respect 
the citizens are less prosperous now than formerly. Next 
we must show that it is reasonable to suppose that the gods 
rejoice, not in the costliness of the sacrifices, but in the piety 
of those who offer them ; again, that both gods and men 
deem those who do anything beyond their means to be 
guilty of great folly ; next, that public expenditure is not 30 
merely a personal question but depends on prosperity and 
adversity. These and others of the same kind are the 
arguments which we shall offer on the subject of sacrifices. 

But in order that we may know how to give some indica- 
tions and offer rules as to the conditions of the ideal sacrifice, 35 
let us define it thus : the best sacrifice of all is one which is 
pious towards the gods, moderate in costliness, likely to 
bring advantage in war, and splendid from a spectacular 
point of view. It will be pious towards the gods, if ancestral 1424^ 
usage is not violated ; it will be moderate in costliness, if 
the accompaniments of the ceremony are not all wasted ; it 
will be splendid from a spectacular point of view, if gold and 
such things as are not actually consumed are used lavishly ; 
and it will be advantageous for war, if horsemen and infantry 
in full panoply accompany the procession. By following 
these rules we shall best provide for the service of the gods. 5 
From what has been said above we shall know how to 
speak in public about the performance of sacred rites of 
every kind. 

Let us next deal similarly with laws and the political 
constitution. Laws may be briefly described as common 10 
agreements made by the community which define and 
ordain in writing how the citizens should act under various 

In democratic states legislation ought to provide for 
appointment by lot to the less important and the majority 
of the offices (for thus faction will be avoided), while the 


most important magistrates should be elected by the votes 

15 of the multitude. In this way the people, having the power 
to bestow honours on whomsoever they like, will not be 
jealous of those who obtain them, while the more prominent 
men will be encouraged to practice virtue, knowing that it 
will be to their advantage to have a good repute among 
their fellow-citizens. Such are the laws which ought to be 

30 laid down regarding elections in a democratic state. It 
would be a lengthy task to go into detail about the rest of 
the administration. But, to put the matter briefly, care 
must be taken that the laws may prevent the multitude from 
entertaining designs against the possessors of property and 
may instil into the wealthy citizens an eagerness to 

25 spend money ^ in undertaking public burdens. The laws 
will ensure this if certain distinctions are set aside by law for 
the owners of property in return for their expenditure in the 
service of the state, and if the laws shoA' more consideration 
for the tillers of the soil and the sailors ^ among the poorer 
classes than for the rabble of the city ; so that the rich may 

30 willingly serve the state, and the people may prefer work to 
dishonest means of gain. In addition stringent laws must be 
laid down forbidding the distribution of public lands and the 
confiscation of the property of deceased persons, and heavy 
penalties must be imposed on those who commit these 

35 transgressions. Also public land in a good position in front 
of the city must be set apart for the burial of those who are 
killed in war, and their children must be supported at the 
public expense until they grow up. Such must be the 
character of legislation in a democratic state. 

40 In oligarchical states the laws ought to distribute the 
1424^ magistracies impartially to all who possess the rights of 
citizenship ; most of them should be bestowed by lot, but 
the most important should be assigned by secret vote under 
oath and with the strictest precautions. Under an oligarchy 
the penalties inflicted on those who offer affronts to any of 
5 the citizens ought to be very heavy, for the people are not 
so much annoyed at being debarred from holding office as 

' Reading with n Xetrovpyias Banavciv (^iXoTi/iuif. 

■ Reading vavriKois, Blass's suggested restoration of 11. 

CHAPTER 2 1424" 

they are angered at being affronted. Differences between 
citizens ought to be settled as quickly as possible and not 
be allowed to continue. Nor ought the lower classes to be 
allowed to collect from the country into the city ; for the 
result of such assemblages is that the populace unites and 
overthrows the oligarchy. Speaking generally, in democratic 10 
states the laws ought to hinder the populace from entertain- 
ing designs on the property of the rich ; in oligarchical 
states they ought to check the possessors of political rights 
from insulting those who are weaker than themselves and 
from imposing upon the citizens. From what I have said 
you will not fail to perceive what aims the laws and 
political constitution ought to keep in view. 15 

Any one who wishes to speak in favour of a law must 
show that it affects all equally, that it harmonizes with the 
rest of the laws, and that it is beneficial to the city, 
particularly in promoting concord ; failing this, he must 
show that it will conduce to virtue among the citizens, or 
that it will benefit the public revenue or the good repute of 20 
the city as a whole, or that it will strengthen the power of 
the state, or that it will confer some similar advantage. If 
you are speaking against a law, you must consider whether 
it does not apply equally to all the citizens ; and next, 
whether, so far from agreeing with the other laws, it is 
actually opposed to them ; and further, whether it will con- 
duce to none of the benefits which we have mentioned, being 25 
on the contrary harmful. These considerations will provide 
us with abundant arguments for making proposals and 
speaking about laws and the political constitution. 

We will now proceed to deal with alliances and contracts 
with other states. Contracts must necessarily be regulated 
by public arrangements and agreements. Alliances must 30 
be formed on occasions when one party is too weak by 
itself, or when a war is expected to break out ; or else men 
must enter into an alliance with another state because they 
think they will thus prevent certain people from making 
war. These and a number of similar circumstances are the 
reasons which induce states to make allies. 

When you wish to support the formation of an alliance, 35 


you must make it clear that the occasion for doing so exists, 
and show if possible, that the proposed allies are just men, and 
that they have previously conferred some benefit upon the 
state, and that they are possessed of considerable power, and 
that they are situated near at hand. If all these advantages 

40 are not present, you must collect in your speech any of them 

1425* which do exist. When you are trying to prevent an alliance, 

it is open to you to show in the first place that it is 

unnecessary at the moment ; or again, that the proposed 

allies are not just men, or that they have wronged us on a 

previous occasion. Failing that, you can object to them on 

5 the ground that they live too far away and are not in a 

position to help us at the proper moment. With these 

and similar arguments we shall have abundant material for 

speaking against and in support of the formation of alliances. 

Again, on the subject of peace and war let us use a similar 

10 method to obtain our chief kinds of argument. The pretexts 
for making war on another state are as follows : when we 
have been the victims of aggression, we must take vengeance 
on those who have wronged us, now that a suitable oppor- 
tunity has presented itself; or else, when we are actually 
being wronged, we must go to war on our own behalf or on 
behalf of our kindred or benefactors ; or else we must help 
our allies when they are wronged ; or else we must go to war 

IS to gain some advantage for the city, in respect either of 
glory, or of resources, or of strength, or of something similar. 
When we are exhorting any one to go to war we must 
collect as many of these pretexts as possible, and afterwards 
show that those whom we are exhorting possess most of the 
advantages which bring success in warfare. Now men are 

20 always successful either by the favour of the gods, which we 
call good fortune, or through the number and strength of 
their troops, or through the abundance of their resources 
or the wisdom of their general or the excellence of their 
allies, or through their superiority of position. From these, 
then, and similar advantages we shall select and demonstrate 

25 those which are most applicable to the circumstances, when 
our advice is in favour of war, belittling the points of 
superiority possessed by the enemy and exaggerating those 

CHAPTER 2 1425* 

which we ourselves enjoy. If we are trying to prevent a 
war which is likely to take place, we must first of all find 
pretexts to show that the alleged grievances either do not 
exist at all or else are small and insignificant ; next we must 3° 
show that it is not expedient to go to war, dwelling on the 
disasters that befall men in warfare; and further, that the 
advantages which conduce to victory (which have just been 
enumerated) are possessed by the enemy rather than by us. 
These are the means which we must employ to avert a war 
which is likely to occur. When we are trying to stop 35 
a war which has actually started, if those to whom our 
advice is offered are stronger than their foes, the first point 
on which we must insist is that sensible men ought not to 
wait until they have a fall, but should make peace while 
they are strong ; also, that it is characteristic of war to ruin 
many even of those who are successful in it, but of peace 40 
to save the vanquished and to allow the victorious to enjoy 1425'' 
the possessions which they have gained in warfare. We 
must also dwell upon the numerous and incalculable 
vicissitudes of warfare. Such are the methods by which 
we must exhort to peace those who are victorious in war. 
Those who have already met with failure we must urge to 5 
make peace on the ground of actual events, and because 
they ought to learn from their misfortunes and not be 
exasperated by those who have already injured them, and 
because of the dangers which have already resulted from 
not making peace, and because it is better to sacrifice a part 
of their possessions to an enemy stronger than themselves 
than to be conquered and lose their lives as well as their 10 
property. And, to put the matter briefly, we must realize 
that it is the universal custom of mankind to abandon 
mutual warfare, either when they think that the demands of 
the enemy are just, or when they are at variance with their 
allies, or weary of war, or afraid of their enemy, or suffering 
from internal strife. If, therefore, you collect from amongst 
all these and similar arguments those which are most 
applicable to the circumstances, you will have no lack of 
material for speaking about peace and war. 15 

Lastly, it remains for us to treat of the provision of 


20 resources. First, then, we must inquire whether any property 
belonging to the city is neglected, neither bringing in any 
revenue nor being dedicated to the gods : I mean, for 
example, any public lands which are neglected and might 
bring in revenue to the city if they were sold or leased to 

25 private persons ; for this is a very common source of income. 
If this expedient is lacking, we must impose taxes on rate- 
able property, or order the poor to give their personal 
service in time of danger, the rich to pay money, and the 
craftsmen to provide arms. In a word, when we are treating 
of ways and means, we must say that they affect all the 

30 citizens equally and are permanent and ample, while the 
exact opposite is true of our adversaries' proposals. 

From what has now been said we are acquainted with the 
subjects on which we shall speak in public, when we are 
seeking to persuade or dissuade, and their component parts, 
which will supply us with the material of our orations. 

35 Next in order let us set forth and treat of the eulogistic and 
vituperative kinds of oratory. 

To speak generally, the eulogistic kind is the ampHfica- 3 
tion of creditable purposes, deeds, and words, and the 
attribution of qualities which do not exist ; ^ while the 
vituperative kind is the opposite of this and consists in the 
minimizing of creditable qualities and the amplification of 
those which are discreditable. Deeds worthy of praise are 
40 those which are just, lawful, expedient, honourable, pleasant, 
1426* and easy of execution. The nature of these qualities and 
the sources from which we can obtain abundant material 
about them have already been stated.^ He who is eulogizing 
must show in his speech that one of these praiseworthy 
deeds is connected with a certain person or his acts, because 
5 it has either been brought about by his personal exertions, 
or has been produced through his agency, or has resulted 
from a certain action of his, or has been done for some 
object, or could not have come to pass except under certain 
circumstances which are due to him. Similarly he who 
is censuring must show that the contrary of this is true 

Cp. Rhci. 1408=' 1-5. * 1421'' 35 ff- 

CHAPTER 3 1426' 

of the person whom he is censuring. The following are 

examples of the results of action ; bodily health is the result 

of a fondness for gymnastics ; a man falls into ill-health as 10 

the result of not caring for exercise, or becomes wiser as the 

result of studying philosophy, or lacks the necessities of life 

as the result of his own carelessness. The following are 

actions done with an object : men endure many toils and 

dangers with the object of being crowned by their fellow- 15 

citizens, or neglect everything else with the object of pleasing 

those whom they love. Instances of things which can only 

take place under certain circumstances are the following: 

victories at sea can only take place when there are sailors to 

win them, and drunkenness can only occur as the result of 

drinking. By pursuing this method on the lines already 

laid down you will have abundant material for eulogy and 3° 


Generally speaking you will be able to amplify and 

minimize under all such circumstances by the following 

method : first, by showing, as I explained just now, that 

many good or bad results have been caused by a certain 

person's actions. This is one kind of amplification. A 

second method is to introduce^ a judgement already passed — 

a favourable one, if you are eulogizing, and an unfavourable 

one, if you are censuring — and then set side by side with 

it what you have to say and compare the two together, 25 

making as much as possible of your own opinion and as 

little as possible of the other judgement ; the result will be 

that your own opinion is magnified. A third plan is to 

compare that about which you are speaking with the least 

thing which falls under the same category ; for the former 

will then appear magnified, just as persons of moderate 

height appear taller than they really are when they stand 30 

side by side with persons of unusually small stature. The 

following is another safe method of amplification : if a certain 

thing has been considered a great good, then its contrary, 

if you mention it, will appear to be a great evil, and similarly, 35 

if a thing is considered to be a great evil, its contrary, if yoii 

' Finckh's emendation, adopted by Sp.-H., oifitya ^ipnv for ^trd^fpe*" 
seems unnecessary. 


mention it, will appear to be a great good. You can also 
magnify good and bad actions by showing that the doer of 
them acted intentionally, proving that he had long pre- 
meditated doing them, that he purposed to do them often, 
that he did them over a long period, that no one else ever 
tried to do them, that he acted in company with others 

40 with whom no one else ever acted, or following those whom 
1426*' no one else ever followed, or that he acted wittingly or 
designedly, and that we should be fortunate, or unfortunate, 
if we all did as he did. You must also prove your point by 
drawing parallels and amplifying as follows, building them 
as it were, one on the top of another ' : ' If a man cares for 
5 his friends, it is natural to suppose that he honours his 
parents, and he who honours his parents will also desire to 
benefit his fatherland.' Generally speaking, if you can 
prove that a man is the cause of many good or bad things, 
these things will appear to be important. You must also 
examine the topic on which you are speaking and see whether 

10 it appears to have more weight when divided into parts or 
when treated as a whole,^ and you must treat it in the 
manner in which it appears to have more weight. By 
pursuing these methods you will be able to make the most 
frequent and effective amplifications. 

You will minimize good and bad actions in your speeches 
by following the opposite method to that which we have 
prescribed for amplification. The best thing is to show that 

15 a man's action has produced no result at all, or, if that is 
impossible, only the smallest and most insignificant results. 
From these instructions we know how to amplify or mini- 
mize any point which we are bringing forward,^ when we are 
eulogizing or censuring. These materials for amplification 
are useful in other kinds * of oratory, but they are most 

30 effective in eulogy ^ and vituperation. We shall thus be 
provided with ample material on these topics. 

' The 'method of Epicharmus', cp. Rhet. 1365* 16 ; G.A. 724*30. 
^ Reading with n norepop ixd^oi/ (f)aivfTai to Trpayfia biaipoiifjuvov fj Kadu- 
\ov \(y6n(pov. 

' Reading with n (K(f)fimfxci/ for e'^eXo^fj/. 

* Sp.-H.'s (IdffTiv is a misprint for etSeo-n'. 

* Cp. AV/e/. I36i;a26, 27. 

CHAPTER 4 1426* 

Let us next similarly define the kinds of oratory employed 
in accusation and defence, [which are concerned with forensic 
business,^] and the elements of which they are composed and 
the uses to which they are to be put. The oratory of 35 
accusation is, to put the matter briefly, the exposition of 
errors and crimes ; defensive oratory is the disproving 
of errors and crimes of which a man is accused or suspected. 
Both styles, then, having these ^ qualities, he who is 
accusing, when he charges his opponents with deliberate 30 
wickedness, must declare that their acts are unjust and 
illegal and detrimental to the interests of the mass of citizens ; 
when he is accusing an adversary of folly, he must declare 
his acts to be both inexpedient for the actual doer of them 
and disgraceful and odious and impracticable. These and 
similar arguments are those which should be directed 35 
against the wicked and foolish. Accusers should also 
observe against what kinds of offences the punishments 
ordained by the laws are directed and for what offences 
juries impose penalties. Where the law has laid down a 
definite punishment, the accuser must 'make it his sole object 40 
to prove that the offence has been committed. When the 1427^ 
jury has to assess the penalty,^ first the charges must be 
proved ; then the errors committed by one's opponents must 
be amplified, and, if possible,it must be shown that the offence 
was committed wittingly, and not with ordinary intent but 5 
after every possible preparation. If you cannot do this, and 
think that your opponent intends to show that he has some- 
how made a mistake or that he intended to act honourably in 
the matter but met with misfortune, you must deprive him of 
any claim to pardon by telling your hearers that evil-doers, in- 
stead of declaring that they have made a mistake after they 
have acted, ought to be careful before they act ; and further 
that, even if he has made mistakes or met with misfortune, 10 
he is more deserving of punishment for his misfortunes and 

^ These words are omitted by n and are probably an interpola- 

^ Reading with n and the best MSS. ravrai for rcis nlrds. 

' Reading with n orav d'ol 8iKaaTai ti/xokti, npioTov fitv uvdyKT) (ni8t'i^tu 
T(i KOTTiynpovfitva. At this point n breaks off: it probably continued 
fnura av^tjrtov ktX. 


mistakes than one who has done neither of these things. 
Moreover the legislator has not let those who make mistakes 
go free, but has made them liable to punishment, in order to 
prevent any one ^ else from making mistakes. You must 

15 also point out that if they listen to one who makes this kind 
of defence, they will have many persons doing wrong deliber- 
ately ; for if they are successful, they will simply do what 
they like, while, if they are unsuccessful, they will declare 
that they have met with ill-fortune, and they then will be 
excused from punishment. By such arguments must 
accusers deprive their adversaries of any claim to pardon, 

20 and by means of the amplifications already described their 
acts must be shown to have caused many evils. These are 
the component parts of which the oratory of accusation is 
made up. 

Defensive oratory consists of three methods. A man who 
is defending himself must either prove that he committed 

35 none of the acts of which he is accused ; or if he is forced 
to admit them, he must try to show that what he has done 
is lawful and just and honourable and expedient for the 
state ; if he cannot prove this, he must attribute his acts to 
an error or to misfortune and show that the harm which has 

30 resulted from them is small, and so try to gain pardon. 
You can define a crime, an error, and a misfortune thus : 
you must regard as a crime a wicked deed done deliberately, 
and you must urge that the heaviest penalty be exacted for 
such deeds ; a harmful act done in ignorance must be called 

35 an error; while the failure to accomplish some good in- 
tention, not through one's own fault but owing to some one 
else or to luck, is to be accounted a misfortune. The com- 
mission of crime you must declare to be confined to wicked 
men, while error and misfortune in action are not peculiar 
to oneself but are common to all men, including those who 

40 are sitting in judgement upon you. You must ask for 

pardon if you are forced to admit that you have committed 

faults of this kind, pointing out that your hearers are as 

1427^ liable to error and misfortune as you are. A man who is 

making his defence must observe all the offences for which 

' Reading ndvrfs, with most MSS. and Bekker, for naaiv. 

CHAPTER 4 1427 

the laws have laid down punishment and juries assess 
penalties. When the law fixes a definite punishment, he 
must show that he has not committed the offence at all, 
or that he has acted legally and justly. But when the jury 
is empowered to assess the penalty, he must not follow the 
same course and deny that he has committed the offence, 5 
but rather he must try to prove that his action has caused 
little harm to his adversary and that it was done involuntarily. 
If we follow these and similar methods, we shall have 
abundant material in cases of accusation and defence. It 10 
remains for us still to deal with the style of oratory em- 
ployed in an inquiry. 

5 Inquiry ^ may be summarily described as the elucidation 
of intentions, acts, and words which are contradictory to one 
another or to the rest of a man's mode of life. He who is 
making an inquiry must try to discover whether either the 15 
statement which he is examining or the acts or intentions of 
the subject of his inquiry are in any respect contradictory 
to one another. The method to be pursued is as follows : 
he must consider whether in the past the person in question, 
after having been originally the friend of another man, next 
became his enemy and then again the friend of the same 
person, or whether he has done anything contradictory or 
of a discreditable tendency, or is likely in the future, if 30 
opportunities should occur, to act in a manner which 
contradicts his former acts. Similarly, you must observe 
whether, in making some statement now, he is speaking in 
contradiction of his former words,^ and likewise whether he 
has formed any intention which contradicts his former 23 
words,^ or would do so if opportunities should arise. By a 
similar process you must deal with the contradictions which 
occur in the mode of life of the person whom you are ex- 
amining in respect of his other and highly esteemed habits 

* There is no one word which exactly translates the term i^irnfru : 
Quintilian {Inst. Orat. iii. 4. 9) has to use the Greek word, ' species 
exquirendi quod if^tracmKuv dicit '. 

^ Omitting with Buhle *] il Ji . . . etpiz/ifVoiy (1. 23 f.), which merely 
repeats the previous clause. 

' (Iprjfitvois (MSS.). 



of life. If you thus pursue this branch of oratory, there is 
no method of examination which you will leave untried. 

30 All the various branches of oratory having now been dis- 
tinguished, we must employ th'^m, when it is fitting, either 
each separately or in common with one another by mingling 
their different qualities. For there are very great differences 
between them, but in actual practice they have much in 

35 common. In this respect they resemble the various classes 
of human beings, who are partly similar and partly dis- 
similar in their appearance and in their perceptions. Having 
thus distinguished the various kinds of oratory, let us next 
enumerate the requisites which are common to all kinds 
and explain how they must be used. 

First, then, the just, the lawful, the expedient, the 6 
40 honourable, the pleasant, and similar topics are, as I stated 
at the beginning,^ common to all the various kinds of oratory, 
1428^ but are chiefly used in persuasive oratory. Secondly, ampli- 
fication and minimization are necessarily useful in all kinds 
of oratory, but most use is made of them in eulogy and 
vituperation. Thirdly, there are the proofs, which must 
5 necessarily be employed in every department of oratory, 
but are particularly useful in accusation and defence, since 
these need most refutation. Further we must deal with 
anticipations of arguments, postulates, reiterations,^ pro- 
lixity of speech, and moderate length of speech, brevity, and 
10 method of statement. For these and similar expedients are 
useful in all the various branches of oratory. 

The just, the lawful, and the like I have already defined " 7 
and explained their application ; I have also dealt with 
15 amplification and minimization.* I will now explain the 
other terms, beginning with the proofs. 

Proofs are of two kinds ; some are derived directly from 

actual words, acts, and persons, others are supplementary 

to words and actions. Probabilities, examples, infallible 

20 signs, enthymemes, maxims, fallible signs, and refutations 

are proofs derived from actual words, persons, and actions. 

' 1421^24 ff. 

^ Omitting Knl(io-rejoXa}'ta(, inserted by Spengel without MS. authority. 

^ I42i*>34ff. * I425'»36flf. 

CHAPTER 7 1428=^ 

Testimonies,^ oaths, and evidence given under torture are 
supplementary proofs. We must understand tlie nature of 
each of these kinds of proof, and whence we are to derive 
material for them, and how they differ from one another. 

It is a Probability when one's hearers have examples in 35 
their own minds of what is being said. For instance, 
if any one were to say that he desires the glorification of 
his country, the prosperity of his friends, and the mis- 
fortunes of his foes, and the like, his statements taken 
together would appear probable ; for each one of his hearers 30 
is himself conscious that he entertains such wishes on these 
and similar subjects. We must, therefore, always carefully 
notice, when we are speaking, whether we are likely to find 
our audience in sympathy with us on the subject on which 
we are speaking ; for in that case they are most likely to 
believe what we say. Such, then, is the nature of a probability. 

We can divide probabilities into three kinds. One kind 35 
consists in the inclusion in one's speech, when accusing or 
defending, of the feelings which are naturally found in 
mankind — if, for example, certain persons happen to despise 
or fear a certain other person, or have often done this very 40 
action, or, further, if they feel pleasure or pain or desire, or 1428'' 
have ceased from desire, or if they act under the influence 
of wine, or have experienced in mind or body or one of the 
senses any of the feelings whereby we are all affected. 
These and similar feelings, being common to all human 
nature, are well known to our hearers. Such, then, are the 5 
natural feelings which are wont to affect mankind, and for 
these we say that a place ought to be found in our speeches. 
Another division of probabilities falls under the heading of 
habit (which is what we do from custom), a third under that 
of love of gain. For we often for the sake of gain choose to xo 
act in a way which does violence to our nature and character. 

With these definitions before us, when we are seeking to 
persuade or dissuade, we must show in regard to the subject 
in question that the action to which we are exhorting our 
hearers, or which we are opposing, has the effect which we 

* Omitting fio|a mv Xtyovrnt, inserted without MS. authority 
by Spengel. 

649-10 K 


15 declare that it has. Failing that, we must show that actions 
similar to that of which we are speaking either generally or 
invariably turn out as we say they do. Such must be our 
application of probabilities in relation to actions. As 
regards persons you must show, if you can, when you are 
accusing any one, that he has often committed the act in 
question on previous occasions ; or, if that is impossible, 

ao that he has done similar acts. You must also try to prove 
that it was to his advantage to commit these acts ; for most 
men, themselves preferring what is to their advantage, think 
that others too always act from this motive. If, therefore, 
you can derive an argument of probability directly from 
your adversaries, this is the method by which you must 

35 infer it. Failing that, you must take similar persons and 
adduce their customary procedure ; for example, when the 
man whom you are accusing is young, argue that he has 
committed acts such as persons of that age are in the habit 
of committing ; for your accusations against him will be 
believed on the ground of this resemblance. Similarly you 

30 will gain credence if you can show that his companions 
have the character which you declare him to have; for 
owing to his association with them it will appear likely that 
he has the same pursuits as his friends. Such must be the 
employment of the argument from probabilities by those 
who are accusing. 

Those who are speaking in their own defence must make 
it their chief object to show that none of the acts of which they 
are accused has ever been committed either by themselves 

35 or by any of their friends or by any person who resembles 
them, and that it was of no advantage to them to commit 
such acts. But if you have manifestly done the same deed 
on a previous occasion, the fault must be attributed to your 
youth, or some other excuse must be introduced to provide 
a reasonable pretext for your having done wrong on that 
occasion. You must declare also that it was of no benefit 
to you to have acted thus at the time and that it would not 

40 have been of any advantage to you now. If no act of the 

1429 kind alleged has ever been committed by you, but some of 

your friends happen to have done such deeds, you must 

CHAPTER 7 1429* 

plead that it is not just that you should be slandered 
because of them, and you must show that others of your 
associates are honest men ; you will thus throw doubt on 
the crime of which you are accused. If they point out that 
other persons, who resemble you, have committed the same 5 
crimes as they allege against you. you must declare that it 
is absurd if the fact that other people can be shown to have 
done wrong is to be regarded as a proof that you have 
committed any of the deeds of which you are accused. If, 
then, you deny that you have done the deed with which you 
are charged, you must thus make your defence by arguing 
from probabilities ; for you will then make the charge 10 
appear improbable. If, however, you are obliged to admit 
the charge, you must point out the resemblance of your acts 
to the usual practice of mankind, by stating as emphatically 
as possible that the majority of men, nay all men, act under 
these and similar circumstances exactly as you have done. 
If you cannot do this, you must take refuge in pleas of mis- 15 
fortune or error, and try to obtain pardon by citing the 
passions which are common to all mankind and make us 
lose our reason — love, anger, drunkenness, ambition, and the 
like. Such is the method by which we shall make the most 
skilful use of the argument from probability. ao 

8 Examples are actions which have taken place in the past 
and are similar to, or the contrary of, those about which we 
are speaking. They must be used when your statement is 
not credible and you wish to establish its truth when it 
does not gain credence from the argument of probability ; 
the object being that your hearers, learning that another 25 
action similar to that of which you are speaking has been 
carried out in the way in which you declare it to have been 
done, may be more ready to believe what you say. 

Examples are of two kinds ; for some things turn out 
according to our expectations, others contrary lo them. 
The former cause credit, the latter discredit. For instance, 3° 
if some one declares that the rich are juster than the poor 
and instances certain just actions on the part of rich men, 
such examples are in accordance with our expectation, 

R 2 


.'.5 for one can see that most men think that rich people are 
juster than poor people. If, on the other hand, some one 
shows that certain rich individuals have acted unjustly in 
order to get money, thus employing an example which is 
contrary to expectation, he would cause the rich to be 
distrusted. Similarly, if any one brings forward an example 
of what seems to be in accordance with our expectation — 
1429'' for instance, that on some occasion the Lacedaemonians or 
Athenians employing a large number of allies utterly de- 
feated their enemies — he then disposes ^ his hearers to take 
to themselves many allies. Such examples are in accordance 
with our expectation,^ for every one is of opinion that large 

5 numbers are of no small importance for winning a victory. 
If, on the other hand, a speaker wishes to prove that numbers 
do not bring victory, he must give as examples occasions 
when the unexpected has happened, pointing out, for instance, 
that the Athenian exiles first seized Phyle with fifty men 

10 and then fought a battle against the far more numerous 
party in the city, who had the Lacedaemonians as their allies, 
and were thus restored to their own city ; or again, that the 
Thebans, when the Lacedaemonians and practically all the 
Peloponnesians invaded Boeotia, confronted them alone at 

15 Leuctra and conquered the might of the Lacedaemonians : 
or again, that Dio the Syracusan sailed to Syracuse with 
three thousand hoplites and defeated Dionysius, whose forces 
were many times as great ; and likewise the Corinthians, 
when they went to the assistance of the Syracusans with nine 

ao triremes, defeated the Carthaginians,^ although they were 
blockading the harbours of Syracuse with a hundred and fifty 
ships and held all the city except the acropolis. To sum 
the matter up, these and similar instances of unexpected 
successes often serve to discredit counsels which are based on 
ordinary probability. Such, then, is the nature of examples. 

25 Examples of both kinds must be employed, when we are 

' Heading 7r/)orp*'rret with A and 1). 

' Sp.-H. bracket this clause; if it is retained, ro TrXfjOot, read by 
F^Ob, must be kept after noXffiois in 1. 5. 

^ This expedition under Timoleon in 341 P.. c. is the latest in date of 
the various historical instances given in this treatise and is therefore 
of hnportance for fixing the date of the treatise. 

CHAPTER 8 1429" 

urging what may be reasonably expected to happen, in 
order to show that the suggested course of action usually 
turns out in a particular way ; and, when we are predicting 
some unexpected result, in order to give instances in which 
satisfactory results have accrued where they seemed to be 
least expected. If your adversaries use this device,^ you ;^o 
must show that their instances were the results of good luck, 
and declare that such things happen rarely, whereas your 
examples are of common occurrence. This, then, is the 
method of employing examples. If, on the other hand, we 
wish to cite instances where the unexpected has happened, 
we must collect as many of them as possible and show by 35 
enumeration that the unexpected happens quite as often as 
the expected. We must use not only examples derived in 
this way but also those based on contraries. For instance, 
you can show that a certain state has acted selfishly towards 
its allies and that their friendship has thus been dissolved, and 1430* 
then say, 'We on the other hand, if we behave fairly and 
impartially towards our allies, shall keep their alliance 
for a long time ' ; or again, you can show that certain others 
have gone to war without due preparation and have conse- 
quently been defeated, and then say, ' If we were to go to 5 
war properly prepared, we should have better hopes of 
success.' You will be able to derive a number of examples 
from past and from present events ; for actions are generally 
partly like and partly unlike one another. For this reason 
therefore we shall have no lack of examples and no difift- 10 
culty in contradicting those brought forward by the other 
side. We now know the different kinds of examples and 
how we are to employ them and whence we are to derive 
them in abundance. 

9 Infallible Signs exist where the direct contrary of that 
with which the speech is concerned has occurred, and 15 
where the speech is self-contradictory. For most listeners 
conclude from the contraries which occur in connexion with 
a speech or action that there is nothing sound in what is 
being said or done. You will often discover infallible signs 

' The punctuation Ac'ycocri tovto, xp'l seems to be demanded by the 
sense here. 


3o by considering whether your adversary's speech is self- 
contradictory or whether his action itself contradicts his 
words. Such is the nature of infallible signs and the 
method by which you will obtain the greatest number of 

Enthymemes arise where contraries occur not only ofio 
the speech and action in question but of anything else as 

25 well. You will often discover them by pursuing the method 
prescribed for the oratory of inquiry ^ and by considering 
whether the speech is self-contradictory in any respect, or 
whether what has been done is contrary to justice or law 
or expediency, or to what is honourable, practicable, easy, 
or probable, or to the character of the speaker or the nature 

30 of the circumstances. Such are the enthymemes which 
must be chosen for use against our adversaries. The 
contraries of these must be employed on our own behalf, 
and we must prove that our actions and words are the 
contrary of those which are unjust, unlawful, inexpedient, 
and of the habits of wicked men — in a word, of those things 

35 which are considered evil. We must speak in support of 
each of these pleas as briefly as possible and express our- 
selves in the fewest possible words. This then is the way 
in which we shall obtain a large number of enthymemes 
and the best method of employing them. 

40 A Maxim is^ briefly, the expression of an individual II 
1430'' opinion on general matters,^ There are two kinds of 
maxims, those which agree with current opinion and those 
which are paradoxical. When you are using the former, 
there is no need to bring forward any reasons for your state- 
ment, for what you say is well known and does not excite 
5 incredulity. But when you are uttering a paradox, you 
must state your reasons ^ briefly, so as to avoid prolixity 
and not arouse incredulity. The maxims which you quote 
must be applicable to the circumstances, in order that your 
words may not seem inept and far-fetched. We shall form a 
large number of maxims either from the peculiar nature of 
the circumstances or by means of hyperbole or by drawing 

' Cp. 1427'^ 17 ff. ^ Cp. /?Ae/. 1394^21-3. 

' Cp. A'Ae/. 1394*' S-io, 27 ft". 



parallels. The following are examples of maxims derived 10 
from the peculiar circumstances of a case: 'I do not 
regard it as possible for a man to become a clever general 
if he is without experience in affairs ' ; or again, * It is char- 
acteristic of sensible men to profit by the examples of their 
predecessors and so try to avoid the errors of evil counsel.' 
Such then are the maxims which we shall form from the pecu- 
liar circumstances of a case. Maxims such as the following 15 
are formed by hyperbole : ' Thieves are in my opinion worse 
than plunderers ; for the former carry off property secretly, 
the latter openly.' By this method we shall form a 
number of maxims by hyperbole. The following are 
maxims based on parallels : ' Those who appropriate 30 
money seem to me to act very like those who betray cities ; 
for both are trusted and wrong those who have trusted 
them ' ; or again, ' My opponents seem to me to act very like 
tyrants ; for tyrants claim not to be punished for the wrongs 
which they have themselves inflicted, while they demand the 35 
fullest punishment for the wrongs of which they accuse 
others ; and my adversaries, if they have themselves some- 
thing which belongs to me, do not restore it, while, if I have 
received something which belongs to them, they think that 
they ought to have it restored to them and the interest on 
it as well.' By following this method then we shall form a 
number of maxims. 

One thing is a Sign ' of another thing, but one thing taken 30 
at random is not a sign of something else taken at random, 
nor is everything a sign of everything else ; but the sign of a 
thing is that which usually occurs before, or simultaneously 
with, or after it. That which has happened is a sign not only 
of what has happened but also of what has not happened ; 
and similarly what has not happened is a sign not only 35 
of what does not exist but also of what does exist. 
One sign causes belief, another knowledge ; the latter is 
the best kind of sign, while that which produces the most 
plausible opinion is second best. To put the matter briefly, 

' i.e. 2l fallible %\gn as opposed to TtK\t.i]pwv, an infallible sign, 
cp. Rhet. 1357^ 1-5, 10 ff. 


we shall obtain an abundance of signs from anything which 

has been done or is said or seen, taking each separately, and 

40 also from the greatness or smallness of the resultant disad- 

1431^ vantages or advantages. We shall also derive them from 

testimonies and evidence ' and from our own supporters or 

those of our enemies, or from our enemies themselves ; also 

from the challenges issued by the parties and from times 

• and seasons and from many other things. From these 

5 sources then we shall have an abundance of signs. 

A Refutation is that which cannot be otherwise than as 13 
we say it is. It is based on what is by nature necessary, 
or necessary as urged by us, and on what is impossible by 
nature or impossible as urged by our adversaries. An 

10 example of something which is naturally necessary is the 
statement that ' living creatures require food ', and the like. 
What is necessary as urged by us is such a statement as 
that ' those who are scourged confess what their tormentors 
tell them to confess '. Again, an instance of what is 
naturally impossible is the statement that ' a small child 

15 stole a sum of money, which he could not possibly carry, 
and went off with it '. It will be an impossibility as urged 
by an adversary, if, for example, he declares that on a 
certain date we made a contract at Athens, whereas we can 
prove to our hearers that at that time we were absent in 
some other city. It is from these and similar materials 
that we shall form our refutations. 

JO We have now briefly described all the proofs which are 
derived from actual words and from acts and from persons. 
Let us now consider how they differ from one another. 

A probability differs from an example in this, that the 14I 

2- hearers have themselves some notion of the probability, 

while examples (are supplied from our own experience. 

Examples differ from infallible signs because they ^) can 

be derived from contraries and from similars, while infallible 

^ Either Kn\ fV tq)v fxap-rvpiav or Koi <K tS)v fiaprvpovfjiivuiv should 
probably be deleted ; Spengel suggests paprvpoiv for p.apTvpia)v. 

' Sauppe first indicated a lacuna here : Spengel supplies Trap' iv/iiv 
flcr(f)(pop.(if. TO. be nnpa^dypara 5i(i(p(p(i rcof T(>cpj]pia)v on ra 

CHAPTER 14 1431" 

signs can only be constructed from contrarieties of word 
and deed. Again, an enthymeme always has this dis- 30 
tinction from an infallible sign, that an infallible sign is a 
contrariety which is concerned with a word or an action, 
while an enthymeme selects also contrarieties connected 
with other kinds of things ; in other words, it is impossible 
for us to obtain an infallible sign unless there is some 
contrariety in respect of actions or words, whereas speakers 
can provide themselves with enthymemes from a variety of 35 
sources. Maxims differ from enthymemes in that enthy- 
memes can be constructed only from contrarieties, whereas 
maxims can be enunciated both in connexion with con- 
trarieties and also by themselves. Signs differ from maxims 
and all the other proofs already mentioned, because, while 40 
all the others engender an opinion in the minds of those who 
hear them, certain of the signs cause those who judge to have 
a clear knowledge ; also because it is impossible for us our- 
selves to provide most of the other proofs, while it is easy to 1431'' 
obtain a large number of signs. Further, a refutation 
differs from a sign, because some signs cause those who 
hear them merely to entertain an opinion, whereas every 
refutation teaches the truth to the judges. Thus from 
what has been said we know the nature of the proofs which 5 
concern words and actions, and the sources from which we 
are to derive them, and how they differ from one another. 

Let us next deal with each of the supplementary proofs. 
The opinion of a speaker is the declaration of his own belief 
about things. He ought to show himself to be experienced 10 
in the matters about which he is speaking, and point out that 
it is to his advantage to tell the truth concerning them. 
One who is contradicting ought first and foremost to show 
that his adversary has no experience of the matters on 
which he is nevertheless giving his opinion ; ^ if however 
that is impossible, he ought to show that even persons 15 
of experience often make mistakes ; and if this is inadmis- 
sible, he must say that it is contrary to the advantage of 
his opponents to tell the truth about these matters. Such 
is the use which we shall make of opinions expressed by 

' Reading /re/u itv aTro^mVcTnt ti)v do^av o/ituy. 


speakers, botli when we are ourselves expressing them and 
when we are contradicting others. 

3o Testimony is a confession made voluntarily by one who 15 
knows. That which is testified must be either likely or 
unlikely or of doubtful credit : similarly the witness must be 
trustworthy or untrustworthy or of doubtful good faith. 
When therefore the evidence is likely and the witness 

35 truthful, the testimony needs no further support, unless you 
wish briefly to introduce a maxim or enthymeme for adorn- 
ment's sake. But when the witness is under suspicion, you 
must prove that such a person would not give false evidence 
to show gratitude or from motives of revenge or gain. You 
must also make it clear that it is not to his advantage to 

30 bear false witness ; for the benefits which he gains, you will 
urge, are small, while detection is a serious matter, and, if he 
is found out, the laws punish him not only by fining him but 
also by damaging his reputation and destroying his credit. 
By these methods then we shall cause witnesses to be 

When we are contradicting evidence, we must cast 
prejudice on the character of the witness, if he is a bad man, 

35 or inquire into the evidence, if it is improbable, or else contra- 
dict both the witness and the evidence by bringing together 
all that is most discreditable to our adversaries. We must 
also consider whether the witness is a friend to him for 
whom he is giving evidence, or whether he can in any way 
be associated with his deed, or whether he is an enemy of 
the man against whom he is bearing witness,^ or whether he 

40 is poor. For such men are under suspicion of bearing false 
witness either to show favour or from motives of revenge or 
for gain. We shall also say that the legislator laid down 
the law about false testimony to apply to persons of this 
kind and that it is absurd that, whereas the legislator did 
1432* not trust witnesses, those should believe them who are sitting 
in judgement after having sworn to judge according to the 
laws. By these methods then we shall cause witnesses to 
be discredited. 

It is possible also to disguise evidence by a proceeding 

* Cp. Rhet. 1376** 30. 

CHAPTER 15 1432'* 

such as the .following : ' Bear witness ', you say, ' in my 
favour, Callicles' — ' By the gods, I will not,' he replies, ' for .s 
the accused committed these crimes, though I tried to 
prevent him.' In this way, though he has given false 
evidence in his refusal, he will not be liable to punishment 
as a false witness. This then is the way in which we shall 
treat evidence, when it is to our advantage to disguise it. 
If our opponents try to do anything of this kind, we shall 
expose their wickedness and order them to give their 
evidence in writing. With these instructions then before 10 
us we know how to deal with witnesses and evidence. 
16 Evidence given under torture is a confession on the part 
of one who knows but is unwilling to state what he knows. 
When therefore it is to our interest to strengthen such 
evidence, we must say that individuals take their proofs 
from evidence under torture in their most serious affairs, and 
cities in their most important business, and that evidence 15 
under torture is more trustworthy than ordinary testimony.^ 
For it is often to the interest of witnesses to lie ; but 
those who are under torture gain by telling the truth, 
for doing so will bring them the speediest relief from their 

When you wish to discredit evidence given under torture, 
you must say in the first place that slaves who are being 20 
tortured become hostile to those who have delivered them 
up to be tortured and for this reason tell many lies against 
their masters. Secondly, you must say that they often 
make confessions to their torturers which are not the truth, 
in order to end their torments as quickly as possible.^ You 
must also point out that even free men have often before 25 
now lied against themselves under torture to escape the 
suffering of the moment ; it is therefore much more likely 
that slaves should wish to avoid punishment by lying 
against their masters, rather than, when they are enduring 
great bodily and mental pain, deliberately refuse to utter a 
falsehood in order to save other people from suffering. By 3° 
these and similar arguments we shall cause evidence given 
under torture to be believed or disbelieved. 

» Cp. A"//^/. 1376*' 34 ii. ' Cp. /^/te/. 1377*3-6. 


An Oath is an affirmation without proof accompanied 17 
by an invocation of the gods. When we wish to amplify 

35 the power of an oath ^ we must say that no one would 
desire to commit perjury, because he would fear punish- 
ment from heaven and disgrace in the eyes of men ; we 
must also point out that, while it is possible to escape the 
notice of men, it is impossible to elude the gods. When our 
opponents take refuge in an oath and we wish to belittle it, 

40 we must point out that those who do evil deeds are the very 
1432'' men who do not scruple to commit perjury ; for a man who 
thinks that the gods take no notice of him when he does wrong, 
also thinks that he will not be punished even if he forswears 
himself. By pursuing a method such as the above in the 
matter of oaths we shall have no lack of material about them. 
5 We have now briefly carried out our purpose of dealing 
with all the various kinds of proof and have shown not only 
the force of each of them, but also how they dift'er from one 
another and how they ought to be employed. We will now 
proceed to explain the other expedients'^ which belong to 
all three ^ kinds of oratory and are useful in speeches of 

10 every kind. 

Anticipation is the method by which we shall counteract 18 
the ill-feeling which is felt against us by anticipating the 
adverse criticisms of our audience and the arguments of those 
who are going to speak against us. We shall anticipate the 

15 criticisms of our audience by such a statement as, * Perhaps 
some of you are astonished that, young as I am, I attempt 
thus to speak in public on important matters ' ; or again, 
' Let no one oppose me through resentment, because I am 
going to offer you advice on subjects about which certain 
other people hesitate to speak openly before you.' In 
matters then which are likely to annoy your hearers you 

20 must by anticipations of this kind bring forward reasons, 
which will show that you are justified in offering advice, 

^ Reading with Spengel ornv /xfV nirov. 

* i. e. the four (r;(>;/uaT(i : TrpoKnruXrjy^n, (UTTjfiaTn, TriiXiXXoyio, dputvfia. 
Cp. 1428'' 8, 1439*34 and note. 

' Reading with all MSS. TpicT'v, which was emended by Spengel to 
(iTTa in order to support his ascription of the treatise to Anaximenes ; 
see note on 1421'' 7-9. 

CHAPTER i8 1432" 

pointing out the dearth of public speakers or the greatness 
of the dangers or the public expediency, or giving some 
other such reason whereby you will remove the ill-feeling 
which threatens you. If your audience still cries out 
just as much against you, you must address them briefly 25 
in the form of a maxim or enthymeme, saying, for 
example, that ^ it is absolutely absurd that they should have 
come together to take the best counsel about the political 
situation and then think that they can take good counsel 
without deigning to hear what the speakers have to say ; or 
again, you may say that it is only fair that they should 
either themselves get up and offer some advice, or else listen 30 
to those who have advice to offer, and then vote in favour of 
any course that recommends itself to them. Such must be 
the method of employing anticipation in public speaking, 
and this is how outcries must be faced. 

In forensic speeches we shall use similar methods of 
anticipation to the above. If an outcry is raised against us 35 
at an early stage of the proceedings, we shall meet it in this 
manner : ' Is it not absurd that, while the legislator ordained 
that each party should be allowed to speak twice, you who 
are sitting in judgement upon us should have sworn to pass 
sentence according to the law, and then refuse even to listen 
to a single speech ? And that, while he took such measures 40 
to secure that you should give your vote in accordance with 
your oath after hearing all that was to be said, you should 1433* 
be so indifferent to his injunctions that, without even listen- 
ing to the beginnings of the speeches, you already think that 
you know all the facts perfectly?' Or you can put the 
matter differently and say, * How absurd it is that the law- 
giver should have ordained that, if the votes were equal, the 5 
defendant should win the case, whereas you hold so strongly 
to the contrary opinion that you do not even listen to the 
defence offered by those who have been slandered ; and that, 
whereas he granted this advantage in the voting to de- 
fendants because they run greater risks, you, while you show 
no hostility towards the accusers who run no risks, alarm 10 
by these outcries those who in terror and danger are defending 
' Reading dwn, suggested by Bekkcr, for «i6. 


themselves from the charges brought against them.' Such 
must be your method of meeting those who raise an outcry 
against you at the beginning of your speech. If they 
interrupt you when your speech is well advanced, then, if 
15 those who do so are few in number, you must rebuke them 
and tell them that it is only just that they should listen to 
you at the moment, in order that they may not prevent the 
rest from forming a correct judgement, and that, when they 
have heard you, then they can do what they please. If the 
majority raises an outcry against you, you should blame 
yourself and not your judges ; for, if you find fault with 
20 them, you only make them angry, whereas, if you blame 
yourself and say ^ that you are in the wrong, you will gain 
their pardon. You must also beg your judges to give a 
favourable ear to your speech and not at this early stage to 
show what view they take about the facts on which they are 
to give their secret vote. In general, we shall meet inter- 
as ruptions in a summary manner with maxims and enthy- 
memes, pointing out that our interrupters are setting them- 
selves in opposition to justice or the laws or the interests of 
the city or what is honourable ; for such methods as these are 
best calculated to make one's hearers stop interrupting. 
30 We now know from what has been said above how to employ 
anticipations in dealing with an audience and how to meet 

I will next show you how to anticipate what is likely to 
be said by one's opponents. You can say : ' Perhaps he will 
bewail his poverty, which is not my fault but has been 
35 caused by his own way of life ' ; or again, ' I hear that he 
intends to say such and such a thing.' If we are speaking 
first, we must thus anticipate what our opponents are likely 
to say and so destroy and invalidate their pleas. For even 
though the arguments which you forestall and discredit are 
quite forcible, they will appear much less weighty to those 
who have already heard them. 
40 If we are speaking after our opponents and they have 
1433^ anticipated what we intend to say, it is necessary to counter- 
act their anticipations and destroy them by speaking as 
' Omitting fV rw Xfytiv with Spengel. 

CHAPTER i8 1433" 

follows, ' My opponent has not only told you many lies to 
my discredit, but further, well knowing that I shall refute 
his charges, he has anticipated my plea and discredited it 
beforehand, in order that you may not give it the attention 5 
which you otherwise would, or else that I may not employ 
it at all, because it has already been torn to pieces by him. 
I hold, however, that you ought to hear my arguments from 
my own lips, not from his, even if he has tried to tear my 
arguments to pieces by saying things which I declare to be 
a strong sign that he has no sound plea to offer.' Euripides 10 
has made a clever use of this device in the following lines of 
his Philoctetes : 

E'en though he thinks to have destroyed my pleas 
Escaping charge of wrong, yet will I speak ; 
From mine own lips mine arguments shall come, 
Let his words show what kind of man he is.^ 

We know then from the above how to make use of anticipa- 15 
tions in relation both to our judges and to our opponents. 

19 Postulates in oratory are the demands which speakers 
make from their hearers. Some of them are just, others 
unjust. It is just to ask that they should listen to what you 
are saying and lend a favourable ear. It is also a just ao 
demand that they should give one the assistance which the 
laws allow and never vote against the laws and that they 
should make allowances for misfortunes. Any demand 
which is contrary to the law is unjust, otherwise it is just.'^ 
Such are the postulates. We have distinguished their 35 
different kinds in order that, knowing the just from the 
unjust, we may use them on the right occasion, and that it 
may not escape our notice if our adversaries make any 
unjust demand from the judges. From what has been said 
we shall have an adequate knowledge on this subject. 

ao Iteration is a means of briefly reminding one's hearers. 
It must be employed both at the conclusion of a division of 3° 
a speech and at the final conclusion. In recapitulating we 
use iteration in the form either of a division or of the 

' Fr. 794 (Nauck). ''■ Spengel deletes the words Vav hi fjifj, bUaioy. 


recommendation of a certain course or of asking questions 
or of an enumeration. I will show you of what nature each 
of these is. The following is an example of its use in the 
form of a division : ' I cannot say what these men would 

33 have done, if they had not manifestly deserted us long ago 
and were not convicted of having served against our city and 
of having never fulfilled any of their promises.' Such is 
the use of iteration in an argument. It can be used as 
follows in the form of an enumeration : ' I have shown that 

40 they were the first to break the treaty of alliance and the 
1434* first to attack us when we were at war with the Lacedae- 
monians, and that they displayed the utmost eagerness to 
enslave our city.' Such is the use of iteration in an 
enumeration. The following is an example of its use in 
reminding your audience under the form of recommending 
a certain course of action : ' You must remember that ever 
5 since we entered into friendship with these men we have 
never suffered any reverse at the hands of our enemies. 
For they have often helped us and prevented the Lacedae- 
monians from devastating our territory, and they have 
continued to this day to contribute large sums of money.' 
Thus shall we remind our hearers by recommending a 
certain course of action. The following is an instance of 

10 iteration in the form of a question : ' I should like to hear 
from them, why it is that they do not pay us the tribute 
which they owe. For they cannot have the face to say that 
they are in need of mc.ey, when they can be shown to be 
receiving such large sums of money annually from their land, 
nor yet can they say that they spend much on the 

15 administration of their city ; for they clearly spend less than 
all the other islanders.' Such will be our use of iteration 
in the form of a question. 

Irony is to say something and pretend that you are not 21 
saying it, or else to call things by the names of their 
contraries. It may take the following form in a brief 
JO reminder of what has already been said : ' I think that I 
need hardly say that these men, who pretend that they have 
done the state many services, are shown to have done it 

CHAPTER 21 1434'' 

much harm, whereas we, whom they declare to be ungrateful, 
are shown to have often helped them and never to have done 
any one any injury.' Such is the way briefly to remind your 35 
hearers of something under the pretence of omitting it. 
Secondly, the following is an instance of calling things by 
contrary names; ' These noble citizens have clearly done 
great harm to their allies, while we worthless mortals have 
obviously been the cause of many benefits to them.' In 
this way we shall briefly remind our hearers and employ 30 
iteration at the end of the divisions of our speeches and at 
their final conclusion. 

22 We will next explain how one can speak pleasingly and 
prolong a speech to the length which one desires. 

We can speak pleasingly in the following manner, by 
introducing, for example, whole enthymemes or half of one 35 
in such a way that our audience can guess the other half; 
we must also include maxims. To some of these we must 
give a place in every division of the speech, but the actual 
words must be varied and a similar phrase must never be 
applied repeatedly in the same connexion. In this way 40 
your speech will have a pleasing effect. 

When you wish to lengthen your speech, you must divide 1434 
up your subject and in each division explain the nature of 
its contents and their particular and general application and 
state the grounds of your pleas. If we wish to make our 5 
discourse still longer, we must employ a number of words 
in dealing with each topic. In each division of the speech 
you must iterate and make your iteration brief ; while at the 
conclusion of your speech you ought to recapitulate as a 
whole all that you have dealt with in detail, and treat the 
subject generally. In this way your speech will be of a 10 
sufficient length. 

If you wish to speak briefly, you should include your 
whole subject in a single word and that word the shortest 
which is applicable to the subject. You must also employ few 
conjunctive particles and connect as many things as possible 
together.^ Such must be your choice of words ; you must 

^ Cp. J^Jiei. 1407^38 f., where the example given isiroptvdfis bu'Ktx^n''- 

645.10 S 


15 make your language serve a double purpose,^ and you 
must do away with the brief iterations in the separate 
divisions of the speech and only employ iteration in your 
final conclusion. This is the way in which we shall make 
our speeches brief. 

If you wish to speak at moderate length, you must pick 
out the most important divisions of your speech and make 

20 them your subject. You must also use words of medium 
length and not the longest or the shortest, and not employ a 
large number on a single topic but observe moderation. 
You must neither on the one hand do away entirely with 
conclusions in the intermediate parts of your speech, nor on 
the other hand introduce them in every division ; but you 
must make special iterations at the end of those parts to 

25 which you wish your audience to pay particular attention. 
On these principles, then, we shall regulate the length of our 
speeches, whenever we wish to do so. 

If you wish to compose a speech which will be pleasing, 
you must take care as far as possible to adapt the character 
of your speech to that of your audience. You will achfeve 

30 this, if you observe their character, whether noble or petty 
or ordinary. 

On these points, then, you will have adequate knowledge 
from what has been said above. We will now treat of the 
putting together of words ; for this too is essential. 

In the first place, then, words are of three kinds, simple, 23 
composite, and metaphorical. 

Similarly there are three ways in which words can be 
put together : firstly, you can end one syllable with a vowel 
35 and begin the next with a vowel ; secondly, you can begin 
a word with a consonant and end the previous word with a 
consonant ; thirdly, you can put consonants and vowels in 

There are four orders in which words can be arranged .^ 

' ib. 36, where the example is rrjs rjfxcrepas ywaiKos in preference 

to TrjS yvviitKOS Trji fjfjifTtpas, 

* Ta'ieiy is Strange here, since ' describing a thing in one or many 
words ' cannot be called any kind of ' order ' or ' arrangement ', which is 
certainly the sense of ruTTtiv in 1438'' 14 ff. 

CHAPTER 23 1434' 

First, you can either put similar words side by side or 
else disperse them ; or again, you can use the same words 
or else change them into others ; thirdly, you can describe 4° 
a thing in one or many words ; fourthly, you can name in 1435^ 
their proper order the subjects of which you have under- 
taken to treat, or else transpose them. 

I will next show what is the best method of statement 
which you can employ. 

24 First of all, you must make your statement by means 
of a twofold division, and, secondly, you must discourse 
lucidly. The following are the various forms of this two- 5 
fold division. First, one can say that one can oneself 
do one thing and another; secondly, that this man cannot 
do a certain thing, but that man can ; thirdly, that this 
man can do a certain thing and something else; fourthly, 
that neither can one do a certain thing oneself nor 
can any one else do it ; fifthly, that one cannot do a 
certain thing oneself, but that some one else can ;^ sixthly, 10 
that one can do one thing oneself, but the other person cannot 
do something else. You can see each of these cases in the 
following examples. An illustration of the case where one 
can oneself do one thing and another is: 'I have not only 
achieved this for you, but also, when Timotheus intended 
to make an expedition against you, I prevented him.' 15 
The following is an example of the case where one man 
cannot do a thing but another man can : ' This man then 
is unable to go himself on an embassy for you, but here 
is a man who is a friend of the Spartan state and would 
be better able than any one else to carry out the negotia- 
tions which you wish carried out.' The case where a man 
can do a certain thing and something else as well can 
be thus illustrated : ' Not only has he proved himself a 
strong man in war, but he can also give as good advice ^o 
as any other citizen.' The following is a case where one 
cannot oneself do a thing and nobody else can : ' Having 
but a small force I cannot ^ myself conquer our adversaries, 

^ Reading on airos fiev ov bvvarai, trepos 8i dvvnrai (W. D.R.), cp. 
below, 11. 24-6. 

' dvvrjdeir]!/ (Spengel). 

S 2 



nor could any other citizen do so.' The following is an 
instance in which another man can do a thing, but one 

35 cannot do it oneself: 'Yes, he is physically strong, but I 
am weak.' The following is an illustration of the case 
where one can oneself do one thing, but some other person 
cannot do something else : ' I can steer, but this man 
cannot even pull an oar.' This then is how you will employ 

30 forms of twofold statement, following the same course in 
every subject. We must next consider how you are to 
treat your subject lucidly. 

First, then, call anything of which you speak by its 25 
proper name, avoiding ambiguity. Take care not to put 

35 vowels next to one another.^ Be careful to put the so- 
called 'articles' in the proper place. Consider how you 
put words together, so that there may be neither confusion 
nor transposition ; for if your discourse has these qualities 
it is obscure. When you use an introductory particle, 

40 employ the corresponding particle afterwards. The follow- 
ing is an example of the use of a corresponding particle : ' I 
1435^ indeed (ixiv) came to the place to which I said I would come, 
dui (he) you, though you promised to come, did not do so ' ^ ; 
or again, when the same particle follows : ' You were dot/i 
(xat) the cause of that and (kuC) the cause of this.' So 
much for particles ; from these examples you must infer the 
5 use of others. 

Words must be put together so as to avoid confusion or 
transposition. The following is an example of such con- 
fusion : ' It is a terrible thing that this man should strike 
this man (tovtov tovtov Tvirreiv).'^ Here it is not clear which 
man struck the other; but you will make it clear if you say : 
' It is a terrible thing that this man should be struck by this 

10 man (tovtov vito tovtov TviTTeadai).' This is an example 

* Professor Rhys Roberts suggests that the writer has in view cases 
of elision which give rise to ambiguity, such as Theognis 112, where 
fivfifia d{ x.ova-1 or fivi]ixa S' ()(oi'(n are possible. 

^ C'p. Rhei. 1407*20-3. 

^ The confusion, which cannot be brought out in translation, is due 
to the fact that toItov, tovtov are both accusative and it is not clear 
which is the subject and which the object of the infinitive. This passage 
is discussed by Professor Rhys Roberts in C. R. xxvi (191 2), p. 177. 



CHAPTER 25 1435 

where there is a confusion in the arrangement of words. 
The following is an instance of care taken to put the article 
in the right place : ' This man [ovtos 6 avOpca-nos) is wronging 
this man {tovtov tov avOpcoTTor).' In this case the insertion 
of the articles makes the diction clear, while their omission 15 
will make it obscure ; the reverse is sometimes true. So 
much then for the articles. 

Never put vowels in juxtaposition, unless it is impossible 
to make your meaning clear otherwise, or unless a breathing- 
space^ or some other division occurs. 

The following is a case where ambiguity must be avoided : 
the same words are sometimes used in several senses, for 
example we speak of a threshold (oboi) of a door and of a 20 
way (680s) along which people walk ; in such cases we must 
always add that which gives the word its distinctive meaning. 

If we follow these rules we shall be clear in our use of 
words, and we shall make statements by means of the 
twofold method of division already described. 

26 Let us new deal with ' antitheses ', ' parisoses ', and ' simi- 25 
larities ' ; ^ for we shall need these also. 

An 'antithesis'^ occurs when both the wording and the 
sense, or one or other of them, are opposed in a contrast. 
The following would be an antithesis both of wording and 
sense : ' It is not fair that my opponent should become rich 3° 
by possessing what belongs to me, while I sacrifice my 
property and become a mere beggar.' In the following 
sentence we have a merely verbal antithesis : ' Let the rich 
and prosperous give to the poor and needy ; ' and an anti- 
thesis of sense only in the following : ' I tended him when he 
was sick, but he has been the cause of very great misfortunes 
to me.' Here there is no verbal antithesis, but the two 35 
actions are contrasted. The double antithesis (that is, both 
of sense and of wording) would be the best to use : but the 
other two kinds are also true antitheses. 

27 'Parisosis'* (parallelism .of structure) occurs when a 
sentence has two equal ' members '. The equality can be 

' Reading dvdnvfvais {npdwTv^n JVISS.). 
ofjLoiorrjs is here used for the more technical wapofioicamt, cp. 1436'* 5. 


Q^.Rhet. 1409'' 32-1410'' 23. * Q^.Rhct. 1410=' 24. 


40 that of many small to few great things, and an equality of 
1436* magnitude can be united with an equality of number. 
' Parisosis ' takes a form such as the following, ' either 
through lack of resources or through the magnitude of the 
war '. These things are neither like nor opposed to one 
another, but merely equal to one another. 
5 ' Paromoeosis ' ^ (parallelism of sound) goes further than 28 
' parisosis ' ; for it makes the ' members ' not only equal 
but also similar, being composed of similar words, in the 
following, for example : ' If you must imitate the wording, 
you should simulate the feeling.'^ Above all you should 
make the last words similar ; for this gives the closest 

10 similarity. Words are similar which have similar syllables, 
in which most of the letters are the same ; for example, 
'in numbers deficient, in might sufficient'. For whatever 
lies outside the scope of art, the inspiration of the moment 
will be your guide. 

Enough then of these topics. For we are acquainted 
with the nature of the just, the lawful, the honourable, the 

15 expedient and the other qualities, and the sources from 
which we can derive them in abundance. Similarly we 
know the nature of amplifications and minimizations, and 
how we can provide them for our discourses. In like 
manner we are acquainted with the methods of anticipation, 

20 the postulates which we demand from our hearers, itera- 
tions, methods of pleasing, the means of regulating the 
length of our speeches, and all the ways of putting words 
together for purposes of statement. And so knowing 
from what has been said the qualities which are common 

25 to every kind of oratory and their uses, if we accustom and 
practise ourselves according to the prescribed preparatory 
exercises, we shall attain to great facility both in writing and 

It is by taking the component parts separately that you 
can most accurately distinguish the methods of speaking. 
I will next treat of the manner in which the words must be 
organically arranged in the various kinds of oratory, and 

' Cp. Rhet. 1410* 24. 

" The text is corrupt, but something like this may be the meaning. 

CHAPTER 28 1436^ 

which parts must be put first and how they must be 30 

I deal therefore first with proems ; for the proem is 
common to all seven kinds of oratory and it can be fittingly 
applied to all subjects. 

29 The Proem* can be described in a general way as a pre- 
paration of one's audience and a declaration of the subject in 
a summary manner for the benefit of the ignorant, in order 
that they may know with what the speech is concerned 35 
and may follow the argument. It also exhorts them to 
pay attention and tries, as far as is possible in a speech, to 
influence their minds in our favour. Such is the preparation 
at which the proem must aim. 

I will first show how the proem must be employed in 
public speaking and persuasive oratory. The following are 40 
examples of the way in which to lay your subject before 1436'' 
your hearers and make it clear to them : ' I stand before 
you to advise that we should go to war on behalf of the 
Syracusans,' or, ' I stand before you to demonstrate the 
inadvisability of our helping the Syracusans.' This, then, is 
the way to summarize your subject. 

We shall know how to exhort our hearers to pay atten- 5 
tion, if we ourselves call to mind to what arguments and 
facts we pay most attention when deliberating. Do we not 
pay the closest attention when the subjects of deliberation 
are important or alarming or else nearly concern us ; or 
when those who address us claim that they will show us 
that the measures which they are urging us to adopt are 10 
just and honourable and expedient and easy and honest ; 
or when they beg us to listen with attention? Just as, 
therefore, we ourselves attend to others, so if we take those 
of the points above mentioned ^ which are most applicable 
to the subjects of which we are treating and lay them 
before our hearers, we shall make them attend to what we 
are saying. These, then, are the ways in which we exhort 15 
■our hearers to pay attention. 

^ Cp. Rhet. 1414^ iQ-His"* 3. 

'^ i. e. the importance, iScc. (cp. I. 8), or the justness, &c. (cp. 1. 9 f.), of 
the measure which we propose. 


We shall secure their goodwill if we first consider what 
is in fact their attitude towards us, whether they are well 
or ill disposed or whether they are indifferent. If they are 

20 actually well disposed towards us, it is superfluous to talk 
about goodwill ; if, however, we wish to talk about it at all, 
we must do so briefly, using ' irony '^ in the following way : 
• That I am well disposed towards the state, and that you 
have often acted expediently by following my advice, and 
that I obsei-ve a just attitude towards public affairs, prefer- 
ring a personal sacrifice to reaping any advantage at the 

26 expense of the state, — these are, I think, statements which 
it is unnecessary for me to make to you who know well the 
truth of them. My efforts shall be directed rather to-show- 
ing you that you will be well advised, if on this occasion too 
you follow my counsels.' This then is the method by 
which in a public speech you must remind those who are 
well disposed towards you of their goodwill. 

30 When your hearers are neither prejudiced against you nor 
well disposed, you must say that it is right and expedient 
that they should give a favourable ear to those citizens who 
have not yet given a proof of their quality as speakers. 
You must then flatter your audience by praising them, 
saying that it is their custom to judge the speeches which 
they hear with fairness and discrimination. Further, you 
must employ minimization and say, ' I stand before you not 

35 through any confidence in my own cleverness, but because 
I think that the advice which I am about to offer is beneficial 
to the state.' By such methods you must secure the goodwill 
of those who are neither well nor ill disposed towards you. 
If you are the object of misrepresentation, the mis- 
representation must be connected with yourself or the sub- 
ject on which you are speaking or your actual words. Mis- 

40 representations of this kind can date either from the present 
1437* or from the past. If then one is under suspicion of wrong- 
doing in the past, one must employ anticipation - in address- 
ing one's audience and say : ' I am well aware that a prejudice 

6 exists against me, but I will prove that it is groundless.' 

' Cp. 1434" 17 ff- 

* Cp. 1432'' II ff. Hammer's firj is a misprint for /xeV. 

CHAPTER 29 1437 

You must then make a brief defence in your proem, if you 
have anything to say on your own behalf, or raise objections 
to the judgements which have been passed upon you. For 
whether you have been publicly or privately misrepresented, 
judgement must either have been passed upon you or be 
impending in the immediate future, or else those who have 
laid the charge against you are unwilling to submit the 10 
matter to judgement ; and you must say that the judgement 
passed upon you was unfair and that you have been the 
victim of party plots. If this is impossible, you must say 
that your previous misfortunes were sufficient, and that it is 
only fair, now that the matter has been judged and done 
with, that no further prejudice should be raised against you 
on the same grounds. If you are expecting to have judge- 
ment passed upon you, you must say that you are ready to 15 
submit the misrepresentations now to the judgement of your 
present audience ; adding that, if you are proved to have 
wronged the state, you consider yourself worthy of death. 
If your accusers do not press their charges against you, you 
must use this very fact as an indication that their mis- 
representations of you are groundless ; for it will seem hardly 
likely that those who are bringing true accusations against 20 
you can be unwilling to submit the matter to judgement. 
You must always denounce misrepresentation and declare 
it to be outrageous and universal and the cause of end- 
less evil. You must also point out that many have before 
now been ruined through unjust misrepresentation. You 
must show moreover that it is foolish that men, when they 
are consulting about matters of public interest, should allow 25 
themselves to be disturbed by the misrepresentations of 
individuals instead of listening to the advice of all and then 
considering what true policy requires. You must also 
promise to prove that the advice which you have under- 
taken to give is just and expedient. Such then is the 
method which those who have been misrepresented in the 
past must adopt in public speaking in order to refute 3° 

In reference to the present time the first thing which 
creates a prejudice against speakers is their age. If a man 


who is quite young or quite old is speaking in public, his 
hearers feel annoyance ; for they think that the former 
ought not yet to have begun to speak, while the latter 

35 ought before now to have ceased speaking. Secondly, a 
prejudice is created against a man, if he is a frequent 
speaker, for it looks as if he were a busybody ; or again, 
against a man who has never spoken before, for it looks as 
if he had some private motive in thus speaking in public 
contrary to his usual custom. Such, then, are the ways in 
which prejudices in reference to the present are likely to be 
created against a public speaker. 

Excuses must be made by a young man by urging 

40 the dearth of advisers and the special suitability of the 
1437^ speaker ; for instance, if the question concerns the superin- 
tendence of the torch-races or the gymnasium or arms or 
horses or war — in such matters a young man has no small 
interest. He must also urge that, if he has not yet the 
wisdom of years, he has at any rate that wisdom which 
comes from natural endowments and diligent application. 

5 He should also point out that, whereas unsuccessful advice 
reflects only upon its unhappy proposer, the benefit con- 
ferred when the policy succeeds is shared by the whole 
community. Such then are the excuses which must be 
urged by a young man. Excuses must be made when an 
old man is speaking by pointing out the dearth of advisers 
and his extensive knowledge of the subject. Furthermore 

10 he may urge the magnitude and unusual character of the 
crisis and the like. When a man is in the habit of speaking 
too frequently, he may point to his wide experience and 
urge that it would be wrong that one who was formerly in 
the habit of speaking should not express his opinion on this 
occasion. One who is not in the habit of speaking must 
urge the magnitude of the crisis and that it is essential that 

15 every one who has a stake in the community should express 
his opinion on the present situation. Such then are the 
means by which we shall attempt to break down the preju- 
dices raised against the persons of public speakers. 

Prejudice is created against the subject matter of a 
speech when the speaker advises the rupture of peaceful 

CHAPTER 29 1437'' 

relations with ^ those from whom we have received no injury 
or who are stronger than we, or when he advises a discredit- 20 
able peace or urges a reduction of the expenditure on 
sacrifices or makes some other such proposal. On such 
subjects, first, one should employ anticipation in addressing 
one's hearers ; secondly, one ought to lay the blame upon 
necessity and fortune and the times and expediency, and 
say that it is not those who are giving advice but the 25 
circumstances which are to be blamed for such proposals. 
Such are the methods by which we shall free political 
speakers from prejudices which are due to their subject 

The actual speech in a public harangue creates a pre- 
judice when it is too lengthy or old-fashioned, or lacks 
probability. If it be long, this must be attributed to the 
abundance of material; if it be old-fashioned, it must 30 
be pointed out that such a style is opportune at the 
moment ; if it is improbable, you must promise that you 
will prove it to be true in the course of your oration. These 
then are the considerations which will have a place in our 
public speeches. 

Next, what arrangement shall we employ ? If there be no 
prejudice against either ourselves personally or our speech 35 
or our subject, we shall lay down our proposition at the 
very beginning, and we shall afterwards exhort our hearers 
to pay attention and give our words a favourable hearing. 
If any prejudice has been created against us in previous 
speeches, we shall anticipate the judgement of our audience 
and, after briefly defending and excusing ourselves from the 
prejudices thus caused, shall then state our proposition and 40 
exhort our hearers to give us their attention. This, then, is 1438^ 
the way in which public speeches should be constituted. 

30 Next we must either narrate events which have happened 

in the past or recall them to the minds of our hearers, or 

arrange under divisions and explain events which are occur- 5 

ring at the moment, or else predict what is likely to occur 

in the future. When therefore we are reporting the details 

^ Reading, as Prof. Rhys Roberts suggests, avfi^ov\tC{r} 'Kv)(ii'. 
(CMOP all read avu^ovXeveiv.) 


of an embassy, we must make a lucid statement of every- 
thing that was said, in order that our speech may carry 
weight (for it will be a report and nothing else, and no 
other style will find its way in) ; next, if we have been 

10 unsuccessful, our object will be to make our hearers think 
that the failure of the negotiations was due to some other 
cause and not to our negligence ; whereas, if we have met 
with success, they must be made to suppose that the result 
has been due not to chance but to our zealous efforts. 

15 This they are ready to believe, if, not having been present 
at the negotiations, they obsei-ve the zeal displayed in our 
speech in omitting nothing but accurately reporting every 
detail. So, when we are describing the results of an 
embassy, we must for the reasons which I have stated 
report everything just as it happened. 

When we are ourselves describing in a public speech 

20 some past event or explaining the events of the moment or 
predicting what will happen in the future, we must do each 
of these things briefly, clearly, and convincingly. We must 
be clear, in order that our hearers may grasp the events 
which we are describing, and concise, in order that they 
may remember what we have said ; and we must speak 

25 convincingly, in order that they may not reject our state- 
ments before we have supported them with proofs and 

The clearness of our explanations will be due to the words 
which we use or to our facts ; to the latter, if we do not 
present them in an inverted order, but mention first those 

30 which have occurred or are occurring or are going to occur 
first, and arrange the subsequent events in their proper 
order, and do not desert the subject about which we have 
undertaken to speak, and deal with some other subject. 
Thus, then, we shall speak clearly as far as our facts arc 
concerned. Our actual words will be clear, if we describe 
actions as far as possible in words which are appropriate to 

.^6 them, and if we employ usual words and do not put them 
in an inverted order but always arrange together those 
which naturally follow one another. If we observe these 
rules, our narrative will be clear. 

CHAPTER 30 1438* 

We shall be concise if we omit all facts and words the 
mention of which is not essential, keeping only those the 4° 
omission of which will render our speech obscure. Our 1438'' 
narrative will then be concise. 

We shall speak convincingly if, in support of facts which 
are improbable, we bring forward reasons which will make 
the events which we describe seem likely to have taken 
place. We must omit anything the occurrence of which 
seems too improbable. If you are obliged to mention such 5 
things, you must make it clear that you have definite 
knowledge of them, and you must pass lightly over them, 
weaving them into your speech by the figure of ' pretended 
omission ', ^ and promise to show their truth as your speech 
progresses, making the excuse that you wish first to demon- 
strate the truth or justice (or the like) of your previous 
statements. This is the way in which we shall remedy 10 
incredulity in our hearers. 

In a word, by employing all the above-mentioned devices 
we shall make our reports, expositions, and predictions 
clear, brief, and convincing. 

31 There are three different methods in which we shall 
arrange them. If the actions about which we are speaking 
are few in number and well known to our audience, we shall 15 
include the narration of them in our proem, in order that 
this part of our speech may not in itself be too short. If 
the actions which we are recounting are too numerous and 
not familiar to our audience, we shall present them in every 
case in a connected form and show that they are just, 
expedient, and honourable, in order that we may not only 20 
make our tale plain and unembellished by simply relating 
facts but may also win the attention of our hearers. If the 
facts which we are recounting are unimportant and un- 
familiar, we ought to insert the report or exposition or 
prediction of them bodily in the proem. This we shall 
do by recounting them from beginning to end and including 25 
nothing extraneous but merely relating the bare facts. We 
shall thus know how to arrange narratives of facts in our 

» Cp. 1434a 19-25. 


Next comes confirmation, whereby we confirm that the 32 

30 facts which we have ah-eady mentioned are of the nature of 
which we have undertaken to prove them to be, by adducing 
proofs and by considerations of justice and expediency. 
When therefore you include them in your speech, the 
proofs which are best suited to public orations are those 
based on the customary course of events and examples and 
supplementary enthymemes and the opinion of the orator ; 

35 but any other proofs which present themselves may also be 
employed. They must be arranged in the following way : 
first, the opinion of the orator must be mentioned., or, if that 
is not done, the customary course of events must be indi- 
cated, showing that what we are asserting, or something 
similar, is what usually occurs. Following on this we must 

40 cite examples, and any point of similarity must be intro- 
1439^ duced to support what we are saying. The examples 
which we take must be closely akin to our subject and the 
nearest in time or place to our hearers. In the absence of 
such examples we must employ the most striking and best 
known that we can find. Next we must cite maxims. 
5 Also, in the parts where we introduce probabilities and 
examples we must end with enthymemes and maxims. 
This is the manner then in which we must introduce proofs 
where facts are concerned. 

If our statements of facts are believed as soon as they 
are made, we must omit all proofs and confirm the facts 

10 which we have already stated by appeals to justice and 
lawfulness and expediency and considerations of what is 
honourable, pleasant, easy, possible, or necessary. Where 
an appeal to justice is possible, it must be given the first 
place, and we must explain our statements in relation to 
justice or a resemblance to justice ^ or its contrary ^ or what 

15 has been judged to be just.^ You must also cite examples 
similar to the cases of justice which you are instancing. 
You will also be able to produce numerous examples of 
what is regarded as just under special circumstances "^ and 
in the actual city in which your speech is made, and in other 

' Cp. 1422*28 ff. ^ * Cp. ib. 34 ft. ' Cp. ib. 38 ft". 

* For this meaning of Ihia cp. 1421'' 3. 

CHAPTER 32 1439' 

states. When, following this method, we have Said what 
we have to say. adding at the end maxims and brief 
enthymemes of different kinds, if this division of our speech 20 
is long and we wish it to be remembered by our hearers, 
we shall give a concise iteration ; if, however, it is short and 
still fresh in their memory, we shall bring the division itself 
to a close and begin another one. The following is an 
example of what I mean : ' In what I have already said I 
think that the justice of our helping the Syracusans 25 
has been sufficiently demonstrated ; I will now attempt to 
show the expediency of our doing so.' You will next treat 
the question of expediency by a similar method to that which 
we employed above in the case of justice, and at the end 
of that division add an iteration or definite conclusion, and 
then bring forward some other considerations with which you 30 
have to deal. This is the way in which you must connect 
one division with another and keep up the thread of your 
speech. When you have employed every possible means 
to enforce your advice, you must in addition to all thfs show 
in a summary manner with the help of enthymemes and 
maxims or figures ^ that it is unjust and inexpedient and 35 
dishonourable and unpleasant not to adopt your suggestion, 
and in a summary way you must contrast with this the 
justice, expediency, honourableness, and pleasure of doing 
what you are recommending. When you have made a 
sufficient use of maxims, you must end your exhortations 
with a definite conclusion. This then is the way in which 
we shall confirm the proposals which we make. The next 1439^ 
division of our treatise will be concerned with the anticipa- 
tion of contraiy arguments. 

33 Anticipation is the method by which you anticipate and 
demolish the objections which can be brought against your 
speech. You must minimize the arguments of your op- 5 
ponents and amplify your own, as you have already learnt 
to do from the instructions about amplification. ^ You must 
set a single argument against another when yours is the 

^ ^ i.e. the four rhetorical ' figures ' 7rpoKaTaX»7>//«j, atVij/iara, naXiWoyin, 

^ Cp. 1432*' II ff. 



stronger, and several against several and one against many 
and many against one, using every possible kind of contrast, 
and magnify your own arguments and weaken and minimize 
those of your adversaries. This is the manner in which we 

lo shall employ anticipations. Having done this we shall 
conclude with an iteration using the forms of argument or 
enumeration or recommendation of a certain course or 
questioning or irony which we have already mentioned.^ 

If we are urging that help should be given to some 34 

15 one, whether to private individuals or to states, it will be 
fitting briefly to mention any friendship or cause for grati- 
tude or pity which already exists between them and the 
assembly which you are addressing. For they are most 
willing to help those who stand in such relations to them. 
All men feel an affection for those from whom, or from 

20 whose friends, they think they themselves, or those for 
whom they care, have received or are receiving or are going 
to receive some deserved kindness. They feel gratitude 
towards those from whom, or from whose friends, they think 
they themselves or those for whom they care have received, 
are receiving, or will receive some undeserved benefit. If 
any feelings of this kind are present in their minds, we must 

25 briefly dwell upon them and so move our hearers to pity. 
We shall have no difficulty in arousing as much pity as we 
wish, if we realize that all men pity those whom they 
suppose to be closely connected with themselves or think 
to be unworthy to suffer misfortune. You must prove that 
this is the condition of those for whom you wish to excite 

30 pity, and show that they either have been or are in an evil 
plight, or will be so unless your hearers assist them. If 
this is not possible, you must show that those on whose 
behalf you are speaking have been deprived of advantages 
which all or most other people enjoy, or else have been or 
are without some advantage, or never will obtain it unless 

35 those whom you are addressing take pity on them now. 
These are the ways in which we shall incline our audience 
to pity. 

In dissuasion we shall employ the contrary method, using 

» Cp. 1433'' 31 ff- 

CHAPTER 34 1439*' 

the same kind of proem and narrating the facts and giving 
the proofs and showing our hearers that what they are 
attempting to do is unlawful, unjust, inexpedient, disgrace- 144°* 
ful, unpleasant, impracticable, burdensome, and unnecessary. 
The arrangement of our speech will be similar to that used 
in persuasion. Such, then, is the way in which those who 
are employing dissuasion on their own account must arrange 
their speech. 

Those who are opposing the advice given by others must 5 
in the first place state in their proem the views which they 
intend to oppose and then add one by one the other parts 
of the proem. After the proem the speaker must first 
bring forward separately each of the points in the previous 
speech and show that the recommendations of his adversary lo 
are not just or lawful or expedient or the like. This you 
will do by proving that what he says is unjust or inexpedient 
or bears a resemblance to injustice or inexpediency, or is 
the opposite of the just or expedient or what has been 
judged to be so. You must treat the other points in 
a similar manner. This, then, is the most effective method '5 
of dissuasion. If this course is impossible, you must try 
to dissuade your audience by taking some point which 
your adversary has omitted: for example, if he has shown 
that a certain course is just, you must attempt to prove that 
it is discreditable or inexpedient or toilsome or impracticable 
or whatever else you can ; or if he has expediency on his 
side, you must show that his suggestion is unjust and what- ao 
ever else you can as well. You must amplify your own 
contentions and minimize those of your adversary, employ- 
ing the method already prescribed for persuasive oratory. 
You must also introduce maxims and enthymemes, as in 
persuasion, and refute anticipations, and in conclusion 
employ iteration. 

In addition to this we must show, when we are seeking 35 
to persuade our hearers, that friendship exists between 
them and those whom we are urging them to help, and that 
they owe a debt of gratitude lo those who are asking for 
their assistance ; but when we are trying to prevent help 
from being given, we must show that they are worthy 

64M0 T 


objects of indignation or envy or hostility. We shall 
30 implant a sentiment of hostility in those whom we are seeking 
to dissuade by showing that either they themselves, or those 
for whom they care, have received undeserved ill-treatment at 
the hands of the other party or their friends. We shall arouse 
indignation, if we show that they, or those for whom they 
themselves care, have been wrongfully treated with contempt 
or injustice by the other party or their friends.^ We shall 
35 create a feeling of envy, to put the matter briefly, against 
those whom we show to have enjoyed unmerited prosperity, 
or to be now doing so, or to be likely to do so in the future ; 
or never to have been without some advantage, or not to be 
so now, or to be never likely to be so ; or never to have 
suffered some misfortune in the past, or not to be doing so 
now, or to be never likely to do so in future. This, then, is 
the method by which we shall implant envy or hostility or 
40 indignation ; while we shall create feelings of friendship, 
gratitude, and pity by the methods which we indicated in 
1440^ treating of persuasion.^ We shall give these sentiments 
their place and arrangement according to the various 
methods already mentioned. We now know the nature of 
persuasive oratory and its component parts and how it 
must be employed. 

5 Let us next set before ourselves the consideration of 35 
eulogistic and vituperative oratory. Here too we must 
first of all state our propositions in the proem, and refute 
misrepresentation by the same method as in persuasive 
oratory. We must also exhort our hearers to give us their 
attention by the methods already described under public 

10 speeches and in particular by saying things which will 
cause astonishment and attract remark, and showing that 
the subjects of our speech and those who usually incur praise 
or blame have acted in the same manner. Speeches of 
this kind are usually made not in order to fight a case but 
for display. 

First, we shall arrange the proem on the same principle 

' Reading itt' (Ktivwv rj twv (jiikoav (coni. Hammer) for ^ rii* i^i'Awi/ 
eicfivois (or fK(ivu)v). 
' Cp. MSQ^lSff- 

CHAPTER 35 1440 

as in persuasive and dissuasive speeches. After the proem, 15 
we must distinguish those good qualities of our subject 
which are outside the sphere of virtue and those which fall 
within it, as follows : those which fall outside the sphere of 
virtue we shall divide into good birth, physical strength, 
personal beauty, and wealth, while we shall divide virtue 
into wisdom, justice, courage, and noteworthy habits of 30 
life.^ The qualities which pertain to virtue are proper 
subjects of eulogy ; those which fall outside virtue must be 
disguised, for we ought to congratulate rather than praise 
those who are strong and handsome and well-born and 
wealthy. Having made these distinctions we shall give 
the genealogy of the subject of our speech the first place after 
the proem : for this is the first thing which brings credit or 
discredit upon men and also upon animals. We shall 25 
therefore be justified in giving the genealogy of a man or 
any other animal ; and when we are praising any one's 
feeling or action or speech or possession, we shall be justified 
in beginning our eulogy by mentioning the distinguished 
qualities which he possesses. 

The following is the way to treat a man's genealogy : if 
his ancestors were good men and true, you ought to mention 30 
them all from the earliest times down to the subject of 
your eulogy and give a brief account of some glorious 
achievement performed by each of his forefathers. If it is 
only his earliest ancestors that were good men while the 
rest failed to do anything remarkable, you must mention 
the former in the manner already described and omit the 
undistinguished members of the family, excusing yourself 35 
by saying that, his ancestors being so numerous, you do 
not wish to weary your audience by speaking of them, and 
that every one knows that men who are born of a good 
stock usually resemble their forefathers. If his early 
ancestors were undistinguished but those who come nearer 
his own time were men of repute, you must dwell upon his 
descent from the latter and say that it would be tedious to 40 
speak at length about his early forefathers, and you must 1441* 
show that the immediate ancestors of those whom you arc 
* Cp. Rhet. 1387a 14 ff. 
T 2 



eulogizing were good men ; adding that it is quite clear 
that their ancestors must have been good men and true, for 
it is hardly likely that such excellent and worthy persons 
5 can have been born of bad parents. If there is nothing 
distinguished in the ancestry of the subject of your eulogy, 
you must insist on his personal nobility and suggest that all 
those who have a natural predisposition for virtue are ' well 
born ', and you must censure those other orators who dwell 
upon ancestral glories, pointing out that many men of 
distinguished ancestry have proved themselves unworthy 

10 of their forefathers. You must also insist that your task on 
the present occasion is to praise the man himself, not his 
ancestors. A similar use must be made of genealogies to 
discredit one whose ancestors were men of evil repute. 
Such then is the place which genealogy must occupy in 
eulogy and vituperation. 

If the subject of your eulogy owes some distinction to 
good luck,^ (you must attribute his success rather to his 
own efforts than to fortune. 

You must next describe his habits and way of life 

15 beginning from his earliest years), observing this one 
principle that you say what befits his various ages; and 
do not speak at too great length. For example, in 
children it is generally considered that orderliness and self- 
control are due not to themselves but to those who have 
charge of them, and so they must be dealt with briefly. 
When you have thus described his early years, after con- 
cluding'^ with an enthymeme or maxim at the end of this 

30 division of your speech, you will, when you come to the 
early manhood of the subject of your eulogy, state your 
subject, viz. his achievements or character or habits, and 

' The MS. reading tvxw '^'Tr^p^f, toito jmovov 8ia(f>v\dTTovTa has been 
kept. Some words have probably fallen out after vn-^p^e. As the 
words stand no sense can be made unless 8ia<fjv\aTTovTn is emended, 
and even so it is obvious that in the rest of the sentence the author 
has passed to a new subject, namely, a description of the achievements 
of the person eulogized arranged according to the stages of his life. 
The words in brackets represent a conjectural restoration of the sense. 
(Since writing the above I find that Sauppe also marks a lacuna at 
this point.) 

' Reading 6/j«'<ra? with the best MSS. 

CHAPTER 35 1441 

you must amplify them on the principle which we laid 
down at the beginning in treating of eulogistic oratory,^ 
explaining that it was at this age that such and such a 
glorious deed was done by him whom you are eulogizing, 35 
or through his agency or owing to some habit of his, or that 
he inspired it or supplied the motive. You must also 
compare the notable achievements of other young men and 
show that his actions far surpass theirs, relating the least 
important of their deeds and the most important of the 
achievements of the subject of your eulogy. You must 3° 
set deeds of others which are notable but less important 
side by side with those which you are relating, and so 
exaggerate the importance of the latter. You must also 
always amplify his achievements by conjectures of the 
following kind : ' Yet one who at this early age became so 
great a philosopher, if he had been older would have 
advanced yet further ' ; or again, ' A man who so stoutly 35 
endures the toils of the gymnasium, will gladly welcome 
the love of toil which philosophy demands.' By con- 
jectures of this kind we shall amplify his good qualities. 

When we have dealt with the events of his early man- 
hood and put^ maxims and enthymemes at the end of this 
section, after either briefly iterating what we have said, or 1441 
bringing it to a final conclusion,^ we shall next treat * of the 
achievements of the subject of our eulogy after reaching full 
manhood, and after setting forth his justice first and 
amplifying this topic by the method already described we 5 
shall proceed to deal with his wisdom, if he possesses this 
quality ; having similarly dealt with this we shall set forth 
his courage, if he possesses any, and after going through 
the process of amplifying this also, when we have reached 
the end of this section and described all his various qualities, 
we shall repeat and summarize what we have said and bring 'o 
the whole speech to a conclusion with a maxim or an 
enthymeme. It will be suitable in eulogies to treat the 

' Cp, 1426=^ 3 ff. 

* Reading Td^oififv with some MSS. 

' Finckh's Trepan for ntpi or napd of the MSS. is not satisfactory, 
and the whole phrase is probably corrupt, though the sense is clear. 

* Adding du^ifuv after rrakiv as suggested by Sauppe. 



various points at considerable length and to employ a 
dignified diction. 

We shall use the same method to compose our accusations 

15 when we are dealing with wicked men. But we must not scoff 
at the man with whom we are finding fault, but we must 
describe his life ; for statements have more effect than scoffs, 
bringing conviction to our hearers and causing annoyance to 
those with whom we are finding fault ; for scoffing is directed 
against outward appearance and circumstance, while state- 

20 nients about a man are the picture, as it were, of his habits 
and character. Be on your guard against calling disgraceful 
actions by disgraceful names, so as not to violate conventional 
feeling, but express such things by indirect hints and explain 
the facts in words which are really applicable to different 
actions. In finding fault you must employ irony and 

25 laugh at the points on which your adversary prides himself; 
in private, and in the presence of a few listeners, you should 
seek to discredit him, but before the multitude you should 
abuse him by levelling only ordinary accusations against 
him. You must employ the same methods of amplification 
and minimization in finding fault as in eulogy. From what 
has been said we shall know how to practise these kinds of 

30 It remains for us to deal with the oratory of 36 
accusation' and inquiry. Let us next discuss how we 
shall compose and arrange these in the forensic type of 
oratory. We shall therefore first set forth in the proem, 
as in the other kinds, the action which is to be the 
subject of our accusation or defence. We shall exhort our 
35 hearers to attention by the same means in the defensive 
style as we employed in the persuasive style. 

Again, as regards the goodwill of the audience, when 
they are well-disposed towards the subject of our speech 
and he is not the object of prejudice because they are 
irritated against him or his action or his speech, we must 
1442^ secure their goodwill by the method described in dealing 
with the other kinds of oratory. When they are neither 
well nor ill-disposed towards him in connexion with either 
^ Omitting koi to dno'XoyTjTiKov, inserted by Spengel. 

CHAPTER 36 1442 

the past or the present, or when his personality or 
his action or his words are the object of prejudice, we 5 
must bring forward reasons for goodwill towards him,^ 
sometimes blending them together and sometimes taking 
them separately. Such, then, is the method by which we 
must conciliate goodwill. 

Those who are the objects neither of goodwill nor ill- 
will ^ we must briefly eulogize, while we must dispraise 
their adversaries. We must praise them ^ in connexion 
with the qualities which most nearly concern our hearers, 10 
calling them, for example, patriotic, true to their friends, 
grateful, compassionate ; while we shall dispraise an adver- 
sary by applying to him epithets which will arouse the 
indignation of our audience, such as unpatriotic, untrue to 
his friends, thankless, pitiless, and the like. We must also 
conciliate the jury by praising their justice and the intelli- rj 
gence which they bring to their task. We must also 
mention any point in which our client is at a disadvantage 
compared with his opponents, whether in word or deed or 
anything else which concerns his suit ; and we must further 
introduce the considerations of justice, legality, expediency, 
and the like. It is by these means that we must win good- 
will in the minds of the jury for one who is the object of 20 
neither kindly nor unkindly feeling. 

When our client is an object of prejudice, if the prejudice 
dates from the past and is concerned with what he has said, 
we know from what has already been remarked how to 
remove it. If it dates from the present time, it must 
necessarily be concerned with the man's personality^ if he 
is represented as unfit to bring the case in question, or his 35 
character as contradicting the charges he brings or con- 
sistent with the accusation brought against him. It would 
be a case of unsuitability if too young or too old a man 
pleaded on behalf of another ; of contradiction, if a strong 
man accused a weak man of assault, or if a violent man 
brought a charge of violence against a self-controlled man, 

' Adding with some MSS. evuivtiav nopiaTtov after I8la>s, 
^ Reading avrovs. ' Reading alrovs. 

* Deleting the comma after 'wdpunov. 



30 or if a very poor man went to law against a very rich man, 
accusing him of defrauding him of money. These are cases 
where there is a contradiction between the accusations and 
those who bring them. There will be consistency with the 
charge where a strong man is prosecuted for assault by a 
weak man or one who has the reputation of being a thief is 
put on his trial for theft. In a word, there will seem to be 

35 consistency with the charge in the case of persons who 
cause an opinion to be formed about them which corresponds 
with their character. Such, then, will be the misrepresenta- 
tions which arise at the moment against a man's personality. 
Prejudice will be raised against a man's action if he goes to 
1442^ law with his own friends or guests or relatives, or on petty 
or discreditable pleas ; for these things bring disrepute upon 
the parties in a suit. 

I will now show how we are to get rid of the above 
mentioned prejudices. I maintain that there are two 
principles which hold good in all cases. First, when you 
think your opponents are likely to impress the jury, antici- 
5 pate them and make the impression yourself. Secondly, when 
it is a question of acts, you should, if possible, turn the blame 
upon your adversaries, or, failing that, upon some one else, 
urging as an excuse that you have been dragged into the 
suit against your will and under compulsion from your op- 

10 ponents. Against each particular prejudice you must urge 
such excuses as these : a young man, for example, should 
allege a lack of older friends to fight the case on his behalf, 
or the enormity or number of his opponent's misdeeds, or the 
short limit of time allowed,^ or some other such excuse. If 
you are speaking on some one else's behalf, you must say 
that you are pleading his cause from motives of friendship 
for him or hatred of his opponent, or because you were 

15 present at the events in question, or for the public good, or 
because your client stands in need of friends and is a victim 
of injustice. If his character agrees with the charge brought 
against him or is in contradiction to the accusation which he 
brings, you must make use of anticipation and say that it is 
not just or lawful or expedient to judge from an opinion or 

* Reading *} fieyfOos dSiKrjfKWav ^ TrXrjdoi rj TrpoBearfiiav xpovov (Spengel). 

CHAPTER 36 1442" 

suspicion before listening to the facts. Such, then, is the 20 
way in which we shall get rid of prejudices against a man's 
personality; those which concern his action we shall 
repudiate by transferring the blame to his adversary, or by 
accusing the latter of libel or injustice or greed or con- 
tentiousness, or by alleging as an excuse the indignation of 
our client ^ and showing that he could not possibly obtain 25 
justice in any other way. This is how we shall get rid of 
personal prejudices in the law courts ; those which concern 
a man's public life we shall refute by the various methods 
prescribed for the kinds of oratory already dealt with.^ 

We shall arrange the proems of forensic speeches in the 
same manner as those of public orations, and on the same 
principle we shall include the narration of facts in the proem 30 
and either show them to be trustworthy and just in detail 
or else insert them bodily by themselves.^ 

Next will follow confirmation, by means of proofs if the 
facts are disputed by our opponents, or, if they are admitted, 35 
by considerations of justice, expediency, and the like. Of 
proofs we must put testimony first and admissions made 
under torture, if there are any. Next we must confirm our 
statements, if they are credible, by maxims and enthymemes, 
but, if they are not entirely credible, by considerations of 
probability, and afterwards by examples, signs, infallible 1443^ 
and fallible, and refutations, and lastly by enthymemes 
and maxims. If the facts are admitted, we must leave 
proofs alone and make use of justification as already 
described.* Such, then, is the method of confirmation which 5 
we shall employ. 

After such confirmation we shall next state the arguments 
which we can urge against our opponents, and anticipate 
what they are likely to say. If they deny the facts,^ we 
must amplify the proofs which we have already stated and 
criticize and minimize those which they are likely to bring 
forward. If they admit the actions but intend to show 10 

' Putting a comma after 4)i\opeiKias, not after 6pyTji> (so Bekker). 
2 Cp. 1436'' 37 flf. ^ Cp. 1438'' 24. * Cp. 1439" 7 ff. 

° Reading tu irpayfiara for to Trpayfia, cp. above 1. 3 and fvvop.11 Ka\ 
BiKaia, 11. ID, II below. 


that they are legal and just according to written laws, we 
must attempt to show that the laws which we bring forward, 
and laws similar to them, are just and right and to the 
common advantage of the state, and that this is the opinion 
generally held about them, while the contrary is true of the 

15 laws which our opponents are bringing forward. If it is im- 
possible to say this, you must remind the jury that they 
have to give their verdict not on a point of law but on a point 
of fact, and that they have sworn to vote according to the 
established law, and you must tell them that they must not 
pass laws now but upon the proper days fixed for that 

20 purpose. If it so happens that what has been done con- 
travenes laws which appear to be bad,^ we must say that 
here we have not law but the negation of law ; for law is 
laid down for the public benefit, but this law is harmful to 
the state. We must say that they will not be acting 

25 illegally if they vote in contravention of this law, but will 
be legislating to prevent the use of bad and illegal ordinances. 
You can also point out that no law forbids the conferring of 
a public benefit and that it is a benefaction to the state 
to annul bad laws. Regarding laws, then, of which the 
meaning is clear, we shall easily be able, by such methods 

30 of anticipation, to speak against any of them with which we 
are concerned. When there is ambiguity, if the jury 
understand a law in a sense which favours you, you must 
give it that interpretation ; but if they give it the construc- 
tion which your opponent puts upon it, you must tell them 
that this is not what the lawgiver meant but that he 
interpreted it as you do,^ and that it is to the advantage of 
the jury to put the construction which you do upon it. 

35 If you cannot twist the law round, point out that it cannot 
mean anything but what you say it means.^ If you follow 
this method you will have no difficulty as to the way in 
which to deal with laws. 

Generally speaking, if they admit the facts and intend to 

^ Reading with E and G and Bekker and Spengel fioxdnpovs 

doKoiiVTas fLvai vonovs, 

^ Reading with Kayser Xcyftj' Biiparai 6 v6fios. 6 (vavrlos probably 
came in from the previous line. 

* Reading dXX* o av for 6 on; (Spengel). 

CHAPTER 36 1443^ 

base their defence on pleas of justice and legality, you must 
employ these methods to anticipate what they are likely to 40 
say. But if they admit the facts but claim to be pardoned, 
you must deprive your opponents of such arguments in the 1443'' 
following manner. First, you must say that their conduct 
is all the more reprehensible and that it is only when they 
have been found out that they admit their mistake in so 
acting, adding, ' If, therefore, you pardon the defendant, you 
will absolve every one else from punishment.' You can 5 
say, ' If you acquit those who admit their mistakes, how 
will you be able to condemn those who do not do so?' 
You must urge that ' even if he has made a mistake, there 
is no reason why I should suffer through his mistake'. 
Furthermore, you must say that the lawgiver shows no pity 
for those who make mistakes, and so the jury in giving 
their verdict according to the laws should not do so either. 10 
Such theft, as we have stated at the beginning, are the 
means by which we shall refute their appeals for pardon, 
and, speaking generally, we shall anticipate by the method 
already mentioned anything which our opponents intend 
to say with a view either to proof or justification or pardon. 

Next we must recount^ the charge, the whole story of 15 
the case being summarized, and, if possible, in a few words 
instil into the minds of the jury a feeling of hostility or 
indignation or envy towards our opponents and of goodwill 
or gratitude or pity for ourselves. How this is done we 
have already stated in dealing with public speaking and 
persuasion and dissuasion, and we shall again allude to it 20 
finally in treating of the defensive style of oratory. This, 
then, is the way in which we shall compose and arrange our 
speech when we are the first to speak and are the accusers 
in a forensic case. 

When we are defending a case, we shall frame our proem 
in the same way as when accusing, and we shall make no 
mention of the accusations, of which our opponent has 25 
informed our hearers, but after the proem we shall set forth 
and refute the opinions which he has put into their minds 
and throw discredit on his witnesses and the testimony given 

^ avoKoyiarfov (CFOP). 



under torture and the oaths, in the manner already described 
to you. If the facts are credible, we must put our defence 

30 against them into the form of a pretended omission, and, 
if the witnesses who have been examined under torture are 
trustworthy, we must have recourse to argument or state- 
ment of fact or any other strong point which we can bring 
against them. If your adversary accuses you by bringing 
a charge which accords with your advantage or habitual 
practice, you must defend yourself, if you can, by showing 
that the crime with which you are charged does not accord 
with your advantage ; or, failing that, you must urge that it 

35 has not been the custom either of yourself or of persons like 
you to do such things, or to do them in such a manner. 
This is how you will refute the argument of probability. 
When he employs an example,^ you must first show, if you 
can, that it does not resemble the crime with which you are 
charged, or, failing that, yourself bring forward another 

40 example to the contrary which has occurred against 
probability. If he employs a sign,^ you must refute it by 
giving reasons why it implies the exact opposite, while you 
must show that his maxims and enthymemes are either 
1444^ paradoxical or ambiguous. His fallible signs ^ you must 
prove to be signs of a number of other things and not only 
of the charge which he is bringing against you. This, then, 
is the way in which we shall cause our adversary's con- 
tentions to be discredited by either interpreting them in 
a contrary sense or reducing them to ambiguity. 
5 If, on the other hand, we admit that we have done the 
acts with which we are charged, we shall base our plea on 
justice and legality and try to prove that our acts are juster 
and more legal. If this is impossible, we must resort to pleas 
of error or misfortune, and try to win pardon by showing 

10 that the harm which has resulted is small, pointing out that 
error is common to all men, while wrongdoing is peculiar 
to the wicked. You must urge that it is right and just and 
expedient to pardon errors ; for no man knows whether it 
may not fall to his lot to commit such an error. You must 

' Cp. 1429*21 ff. ^ Cp. 1430*14. ^ Cp. 1430^30. 

CHAPTER 36 1444* 

also point out that your opponent claimed pardon when he 15 
committed an error. 

Next will come the anticipations which your adversaries 
have made in their speeches. Anticipations of other kinds 
we shall easily be able to refute by an appeal to the facts ; 
but if they misrepresent us by saying that we read our 
speeches or practise them beforehand, or that we are plead- 
ing for the sake of some reward, we must meet such 20 
accusations with irony and say with regard to the writing 
of speeches that the law does not forbid a man to read out 
a written speech any more than it forbids his opponent to 
speak without notes ; for, while it prohibits the doing of 
certain actions, it allows a man to make a speech in any way 
he likes. You must also say : ' My opponent considers 25 
that the wrongs which he has committed are so serious that 
he does not think I am doing justice to the accusation 
which I am bringing against him, unless I write out and take 
a long time to think over my speech.' Such then is the 
way in which we must meet ^ the misrepresentation of having 
written out our speech. If our opponents declare that we 
learn and rehearse our speeches, we shall admit it and say : 30 
' We who, according to you, learn what we are going to say, 
are not litigious, whereas you, who declare that you do not 
know how to speak, have been convicted of bringing 
vexatious suits in the past and are doing so now against us ' ; 
and we shall draw the conclusion that it would apparently 
therefore be better for the citizens, if our opponent also 
learned to be an orator, for then he would not be such a 
scoundrel and pettifogger. We shall meet the accusation 
that we are paid to plead in court by a similar argument — 35 
admitting it and speaking ironically and pointing out that 
our accuser and every one else does so. You must distinguish 
between the different kinds of pay and say that some 
men plead in court for money, others as a favour, others for 
vengeance, others for honours. You must show that you 40 
are yourself pleading as a favour, and say that your 1444'' 
opponent pleads for no small payment ; for he is going 
to law that he may make money by unrighteous means, 
' Hammer's avamrjTfov is a misprint for dnairrqTtnv. 


not in order to avoid having to pay it. We must follow the 
same method if any one accuses us of teaching others how 
to plead and of composing speeches to be delivered in court. 

5 You must point out that every one else, as far as lies within 
his power, helps his friends by instruction and advice. 
Thus you will have an answer in such cases in accordance 
with the rules of rhetoric. 

You must not be slow in any questions and answers which 
occur in cases of this kind ; but you must make a clear 

lo distinction in your answers between admissions and denials. 
The following are examples of admissions : * Did you kill my 
son?' — ' Yes, I did kill him, when he, unprovoked, raised a 
sword against me ' ; or again, ' Did you thrash my son ? ' — 
' Yes, but he first assaulted me ' ; or again, ' Did you break my 

15 head?' — 'Yes, when you were forcing your way into my 
house at night.' Such admissions are made in reliance on 
the legality of your action. Denials, on the other hand, aim 
at diverting the course of law, for example : ' Did you kill my 
son ? ' — ' No, it was not I, but the law that killed him.' 
This is the kind of answer which you must always make 
when one law enjoins, while another forbids, a certain course 

20 of action. Out of all these various methods you will gather 
the means to meet your adversaries. 

Next will follow an iteration by way of brief reminder 
of what you have said. It is useful on all occasions and 
should therefore be employed in every part and in every kind 
of speech. It is very suitable in accusation and defence and 

35 also in persuasion and dissuasion. In my opinion we ought 
here not only to remind our audience, as in eulogistic and 
vituperative speeches, of what has been said, but we ought 
also to dispose our judges to be favourable towards our- 
selves and unfavourable to our opponents ; we shall make 

30 this the last part of our speech. It is possible to refresh 
your hearer's memory in a summary manner either by 
enumerating the points which you have mentioned, or 
by making a division,^ or by asking additional questions 
which will bring the most credit on yourself and the 
most discredit on your opponents, or, if you like, you 

> Cp. 1433^ 33 ff. 

CHAPTER 36 1444 

can use the form of a simple question.^ The nature of these 
methods we know from what has ah'eady been said. 

We shall win a favourable hearing for ourselves and an 35 
unfavourable one for our opponents if, as in persuasion and 
dissuasion, we show briefly how we ourselves (or our friends) 
have benefited or are benefiting or intend to benefit those 
who are now seeking to wrong us (or those for whom they 
care), or else our judges (or those for whom they care) ; and 40 
point out to them that now is the opportunity to show us 1445^ 
gratitude for our good services ; and also, when it is possible, 
induce them to pity us. This we shall do by showing that 
a close tie binds us to our hearers and that we are suffering 
undeserved misfortune, having been unfairly treated in the 
past, or being so now, or being likely to be so in the future, 5 
unless they help us now. If such arguments are inapplicable, 
we must describe the advantages of which we have been, 
or are being, or are likely to be deprived, if our prayers are 
rejected by our judges ; or show that we never have been, 
or are not now, or are never likely to be in enjoyment 
of some benefit, unless they help us. For it is by these 10 
means that we shall win pity and gain the goodwill of our 

We shall cause a prejudice and feelings of envy against 
our opponents by employing the opposite method and 
pointing out that our hearers, or those for whom they care, 
have received undeserved ill-treatment, or are receiving it, 15 
or are likely to receive it at the hands of our opponents or 
their friends ; for by such arguments they will be induced to 
entertain feelings of hatred and indignation against them. 
Where this is impossible, we shall collect together all the 
arguments by which we can create in our hearers a feeling 
of envy against our opponents ; for envy is very near to 
hatred. They will be objects of envy, to put the matter 20 
briefly, if we can show that they have met with undeserved 
prosperity and that no close ties bind them to our hearers, 
and point out that they have unjustly received, or are 
receiving, or are about to receive many benefits ; or that 

' On the difference between (pu>Tap and npoafparav see J?/ie/. 
1418" 39 ff. 



they have never in the past been without some advantage, 
or are not without it now, or hkely to be so in the future ; 
25 or that they have never met with some misfortune, or are not 
now meeting with it, or likely to do so, unless the judges 
punish them now. By these means then we shall in the 
peroration of our speech win favour for ourselves and 
disfavour for our opponents, and by following all the 
instructions given above we shall be able to arrange speeches 
for accusation and defence according to the rules of rhetoric. 

30 The inquisitive kind of oratory generally occurs, not 37 
separately, but in connexion with the other styles ; it is 
especially useful in dealing with contradictions. However, 
in order that we may know the arrangement of this kind 
of speech also, when we have to inquire into the words or 

35 manner of life or deeds of men or the administration of a 
city, I will describe it also in a summary manner. When 
conducting an inquiry of this kind we must begin in the 
same way as when refuting a prejudice; and so, after first 
adducing plausible pretexts so as to make our action 
appear reasonable, we shall then proceed to conduct our 
inquiry. The following are suitable pretexts : in political 

40 assembles, that we are adopting such a course not from 
1445'' party-spirit but in order that it may not escape the attention 
of our hearers, or again, that our adversaries molested us 
first. In private suits our excuse will be a feeling of hatred 
or the bad character of the subjects of our inquiry or our 
friendship towards them or the object of making them 
realize what they are doing and not do it again. In 

5 public trials our pretexts will be legality, justice, and the 
general interest. After first treating of these and similar 
subjects we shall next in order set forth and inquire into 
each utterance or deed or intention of our opponents, 
showing that these are opposed to justice and legality and 
private and public expediency, and examining them all to 

10 see whether in any respect they contradict one another or 
the practice of good citizens or probability. But, not to be 
tedious by going into details, the more we can prove to our 
hearers that the conduct of the subjects of our inquiry is 

CHAPTER 37 1445 

opposed to honourable pursuits, acts, words, or habits, the 15 
greater will be the discredit which attaches to them. We 
ought to conduct our inquiry not in a bitter but in a gentle 
spirit ; for words if thus spoken will appear more persuasive 
to our hearers, and those who utter them will be less likely 
to bring prejudice upon themselves.^ When you have care- 
fully inquired into everything and amplified the results, you 20 
must conclude with a brief iteration and remind your hearers 
of what you have said. By arranging them thus we shall be 
able to employ all the various kinds of oratory according to 
the rules of rhetoric. 
38 Both in speaking and writing we must try as far as 25 
possible to make our words accord with the principles laid 
down above, and accustom ourselves to practice each 
principle readily, and we shall have many clever expedients 
to enable us to make speeches according to the rules of art 
in private and public suits and in conversation with others ; 
but an orator ought to be careful not only about his words 30 
but also about his personal behaviour, regulating it accord- 
ing to the principles already laid down ; for the manner 
of a man's life contributes to the persuasive influence which 
he exercises and to the establishment of a good reputation. 

In the first place you must divide up your subject-matter 
according to the general system of division in which you 35 
have been instructed, and decide what you must treat of 
first, secondly, thirdly, and fourthly. Next you must 
prepare your hearers to receive you, as I have described in 
dealing with the attitude to be taken towards your audience 
in proems. You will dispose them well towards you, if you 
are true to your promises and if you keep the same friends 40 
all your life and show yourself unchanging in your other 1446^ 
habits and always following the same course. They will 
listen attentively to you, if you treat of great and noble 
deeds and such as promote the public good. 

Their goodwill having been won, when you come to 
practical suggestions they will accept as expedient to them- 
selves those which procure the avoidance of evils and the 5 

^ Reading with E G and Buhle nlrovi for nvroCs. 

645 10 U 



provision of benefits, and reject those which involve the 
contrary results. 

In order that your exposition may be quick and lucid and 
may command credit, you ought to make your practical 
suggestions as follows. You will perform your task quickly, 
10 if you do not try to do everything at once, but take the 
first point first and then the next. You will speak lucidly, 
if you do not suddenly leave your subject and go on to other 
points before you have finished it. You will command 
credit, if you do not act contrary to your usual character, 

15 and further if you do not pretend that the same persons are 
your enemies and your friends. 

As regards proof, where we have sure knowledge, we 
shall prefer to follow its guidance in prescribing plans of 
action, but, where we lack knowledge, we shall take the 
ordinary course of events as our guide ; for it is safest in 
such cases to act with a view to what usually happens. 

30 When we have adversaries to contend with, if it is a 
question of words, we shall obtain confirmation in support 
of our case from the actual words uttered ; in suits about 
contracts we shall do so by dealing with them in accordance 
with unwritten and written laws with the support of the 
best possible testimony and within definite limits of time. 

25 As regards our peroration we shall remind our hearers 
of what has been said by a summary repetition of the facts ; 
while we shall remind them of our past deeds by reference 
to our present deeds, when we are undertaking actions 
identical with, or similar to, former actions. 

Our hearers will be well disposed to us, if we follow a 

30 course of action which will result in their thinking themselves 
well treated in the past, present, or future. We shall add 
weight to our actions, if we deal with transactions which are 
likely to produce great credit for the state. 

Such then is the manner in which an orator must regulate 

35 his personal behaviour ; while he must practice the art 
of oratory according to the principles already laid down. 

^ [Sacrifices must be conducted on the principles already 

^ The concluding paragraph of this treatise occurs only in certain 

CHAPTER 38 I^^46* 

indicated ; they must be reverent towards the gods, 
moderate in costliness, splendid from a spectacular point of 
view, and likely to bring advantage to the citizens. They will 
be reverent towards the gods, if we sacrifice according to 1446'' 
ancestral custom ; they will be moderate in costliness, if the 
accompaniments of the ceremony are not used up as well as 
the money actually expended ; they will be splendid from a 
spectacular point of view, if they are magnificently appointed ; 
they will be beneficial to the citizens, if horsemen and 
infantry in full panoply accompany the procession. Our 5 
dealings with the gods will be devoutly performed if carried 
out thus. 

We shall establish friendly relations with those who are 
of like character to our own and have the same interests, 
and with whom we are obliged to co-operate in matters 
of great importance ; for such friendship is most likely to be 
permanent. We must make those men our allies, who are 10 
most righteous and are possessed, of considerable power and 
live near at hand ; those who are the contrary must be our 
enemies. We must undertake war against those who are 
trying to injure the state or her friends or her allies. The 
protection of the state must be secured either by personal 
service or by the help of allies or by mercenaries ; the first 15 
method is preferable to the second, and the second to the 

As regards the supply of resources, we must provide them 
first and foremost from our own revenues and possessions, 
secondly by taxes on rateable property, and thirdly by 
personal service on the part of the poor, and the provision 
of arms by the craftsmen, and of money by the wealthy. 

As for political constitution, the best form of democracy 20 
is that under which the laws bestow the posts of dignity on 
the best citizens, and the people are not deprived of the 
rights of electing and voting ; the worst form is that under 
which the laws deliver up the wealthy to the insolence of 

MSS. and appears to be an alternative version of 1423^36 ff. It is 
obviously out of place in its present position and has been justly 
suspected by the editors of being spurious both for this reason and also 
because of the nature and ill arrangement of its contents. 

U 2 


the mob. Oligarchies are of two kinds, being based either 
25 on political partisanship or on a property qualification. 

Alliances must be formed when the citizens are unable by 
themselves to protect their own territory and strongholds 
or hold the enemy in check. An alliance must be dispensed 
with when it is unnecessary or when the proposed allies 
30 are too far distant and unable to arrive at the opportune 

A good citizen is one who provides the state with useful 
friends and few and feeble foes, and who procures for her 
the greatest revenue without confiscating the property of a 
35 single private citizen, and who, while conducting himself 
righteously, exposes those who attempt any injury to the 

Men always bestow presents either in the hope of benefit- 
ing themselves or in grateful return for previous services. 
Service is always given either for gain or honour or pleasure 
or fear. All dealings are carried out either by choice or 
1447^ unwillingly : for all acts are done either under compulsion 
or through persuasion or fraud or on some pretext. 

In war one side gains the upper hand either through luck, 
or superiority of numbers or strength or resources, or 
advantage of position, or excellence of allies, or skill on the 
5 part of a general. It is generally held that men should 
abandon their allies either because it is expedient to do so 
or because they have brought the war to a close. 
1447** To act justly is to follow the common customs of the 
state, to obey the laws, and to abide by one's personal 

Physical advantages are good condition, beauty, strength, 
and health ; mental advantages are wisdom, prudence, 
5 courage, self-control, and justice. Wealth and friends are 
advantages alike to mind and body. The opposites of 
these qualities and the lack of wealth and friends are 
disadvantageous. To a state a multitude of good citizens 
is an advantage.] 


2o*-47^ = i42o*-i447b 

Accusation, one of the genera of 
oratory, 21^10; 28*4; 41^30, 
33; 44'' 24; defined, 26'> 25 ; its 
methods, 26'' 30 ff. 

Admissions, 44^ 10 ff. 

Alexander, 20* 5. 

Alliances, a subject of deliberative 
oratory, 23* 24 ; motives of, 24*^ 
30, 46*" 9 ff., 26 ff. ; how to 
speak in favour of, 24^35 ff'> 
against, 25^ I ff. 

Ambiguity, avoidance of, 35^33, 

Amplification, rhetorical, 26* 19 
ff. ; 27*2,20; 28*2, 14; 32*34; 
36*17; 39^*6,7,9; 40*21; 41^ 
33, 37, '' 5. 7. 27 ; 43'' 91 45^ 20. 

Anticipation of arguments {npo- 
KaToXrj^is), 28* 8 ; 40* 25 ; 42^ 5 ; 
43*7, 30, 40, ''14; 44*16 ff. ; 
defined, 32*^ 11 ; use of, 32'' 14, 

ff.; 39^3 ff. 
Antithesis, 35*^ 27 ff. 
Appetite, common to man and the 

animals, 21* 10. 
Aristotle, 20*5. 
Article, the definite, use of, 35* 35, 

Athenians, Athens, 22*40; 23*6; 

29^1, 8; 31*17. 
Attention, how to secure, 36** 5 ff. ; 

38i>2i ; 40'' 18; 46*2. 

Barbarians, 20^ 15, 28. 
Blame, see Vihtperation. 
Boeotia, 29^ 14. 

Brevity of speech, 28* 9 ; how to 
be obtained, 34^ 10 ff. 

Callicles, 32*4. 
Carthiiginians, 28** 19. 
Censure, see Vituperaiion. 
Children, qualities of, 41* 16. 
Citizenship, good, 46'' 31 ff. 
Clearness, see Lucidity. 
Conciseness, how obtained, 38* 

38 ff 
Confirmation, of facts, 38'' 29 ff. ; 

42*^ 32 ff. ; of statements, 46* 22. 

Conjunctions, use of, 34'' 13. 
Consonants, 34** 36, 37. 
Constitution, political, a subject 

of deliberative oratory, 23^^ 23 ; 

24* 8 ff. ; 46^ 20. 
Contracts, lawsuits about, 21'' 13 ; 

46*22 ; between states, 23*25 ; 

Contraries, * examples ' based on, 

29^37; 31*26; in'enthymemes', 

30*23; 31*31. 
Convention, respect for, 41'' 21. 
Corax, 21^2. 
Corinthians, 28'' 18. 
Courage, 40" 19 ; 41'^ 7; 47'>4. 
Crime, defined, 27*31. 

Defence, one of the genera of 
oratory, 21^10; 28*4; 43'' 23; 
44^ 24 ; oratory of, defined, 26'' 
27; its methods, 27*22 ff. ; 41*^ 


Deliberation,deliberative (or politi- 
cal) oratory, 20'' co, 24; 21^1, 
^ 7 ; the subjects of, 23* 13 ff. ; 
see also Public Speaking. 

Democracy, 20* 19 ; the best form 
of, 46'' 20 ; the worst form of, 
46'' 23; elections in a d., 24* 12 
ff. ; ideals of legislation in a d., 
24* 20 ff. 

Denials, 44*^16. 

Desire, common to man and the 
animals, 21* 10. 

Dion of Syracuse, 29^ 15. 

Dionysius, 28'' 17. 

Display, oratory of, see Epiiieictic 

Dissuasion, one of the genera of 
oratory, 21 ''9; 39'' 36; 40*4, 
15; 44'* 25; defined, 21'' 21; 
topics of, 21'' 28 ff. 

Education, value of, 21* 17, 24. 
Election by vote, 24* 14, '' I ; 46'' 

' Enthymemes ', 28* 20 ; 32^ 26 ; 

33" 25; 34'' 35; 38'' 34; 39*5, 

19,34:40*19, 39,''ii ; 42*^38; 

43*2, *'4i; defined, 30*23; 


their material, 30^ 24 ff. ; )( in- 
fallible signs, 31* 28 ; )( maxims, 

Envy, how to arouse, 40* 34 ff. ; 

43b 17; 45a 12 ff. 

Epideictic oratory, 21° 8. 

Error, defined, 27* 33 ; the plea 
of, 29*15; 44*8 ff. 

Eulogy, one of the genera of 
oratory, 21^9; 26'' 20; 28*4; 
40'' 5 ff. ; 42* 9 ; 44^ 27 ; defined, 
25^ 36 ; materials of, 25^ 39 ff. ; 
methods of, 26* 19 ff. 

Euripides, the Philoctetes of, 
quoted, 33^11 ff. 

Evidence, of slaves under torture, 
28*23; 42^37; 43^28, 31; 
defined, 32* 12 ; methods of 
supporting, 32*13 ff., of refut- 
ing, 32*19 ff. ; see also Testi- 

'Examples', 28*19; 38^33. 39; 
39*1, 14; 43*1, i'37, 39; de- 
fined, 29*21; their use, 29*22 
ff. ; tw^o kinds of, 22*27 ff. ; 
based on contraries, 29'' 37 ; )( 
infallible signs, 31*27; )( pro- 
babilities, 31*24. 

Expediency, the Expedient, 21* 1 ; 
23*9, 39; 26*1; 27*26, ^40; 
30*27; 36*15; 38*' 19, 31; 39* 
9, 26, 27, 36; 40*10; 42*19, 
^35; 45^10; a topic of persua- 
sion and dissuasion, 21^24, 29 ; 
defined, 22*4 ff. ; for individuals 
22* 7 ; for states, 22* 11 ; 
analogies to, 22** 30 ff. 

Forensic oratory, 21^ 8 ; 26^ 23 ; 

41'' 32 ; 42*^ 28 ; see also Defence 

and Accusation. 
Friendship, appeals to, 39^ 17 ff. ; 

40* 26, 40. 

Genealogies, use of, 40^ 24 ff. 
Goodwill of an audience, how to 
secure, 36'* 16 ff. ; 41^36 ff. ; 

43*^17; 44^^35 ff-; 45*^38 ff 
Gratitude, appeals to, 39^ 17, 21 

ff.; 40*27,40; 43** 17; 45*1. 
Greece, Greeks, 20^ ij, 27. 
Gymnasium, 37^2. 
Gymnastics, 26*9; 41*35. 

Habit, 28i'8. 

Happiness of man, due to reason, 
21* 13. 

Honourable, the, 21^37; 23*10, 
•j 5 ; 26* 1 ; 27* 26, '' 40 ; 30* 27 ; 
33* 2 ; 36* 14 ; 38b 19 ; 39* 10, 
37 ; a topic of persuasion and 
dissuasion, 21^25, 29; defined, 
22* 15. 

Hostility, how to arouse, 40* 28 ff. ; 
43^ 17 ff. 

Hyperbole, 30^9, 15, 18. 

Indignation, how to arouse, 40*32 

ff; 43^17. 

Inexpedient, the, 22* 15. 

' Inquiry ', one of the genera of 
oratory, 21^ 10 ; 30* 25 ; 41^ 31 ; 
defined, 27^^ 12 ; its use, 27^ 17 ; 

Interruptions, how to deal with, 
33* 24 ff. 

•Irony', 36*^21; 39^14; 41*" 24; 
44*21,36; defined, 34*17 ; ex- 
amples of, 34* 19 ff. 

' Iteration ', 28* 8 ; 34^7, 16, 25; 
36* 20 ; 39* 22, 29, *> 12 ; 40* 24 ; 
41^1; 44^21 ; 45^20; examples 
of. 33^33 ff. ; its use, 33*^ 29. 

Just, the. Justice, 23*34 ; 25^40; 
27* 26, '^ 39 ; 28* 1 1 ; 30* 27 ; 
33* 27 ; 36* 14 ; 38b 9, 19, 30 ; 
39*9, 12 ff., 24, 36 ; 40* 10 ff., 

1 19; 411^4; 42* 18, ''34; 43* 39; 
44*6;45i'5,9;47''i,6; atopic 
of persuasion and dissuasion, 
21^24, 28; defined, 21'' 35 ; 
analogies to, 22* 28 ff. 

Lacedaemonians, 22*40 ; 23* I, 4, 
8; 29^1, II, 12, 15; 34*1,7. 

Lands, public, distribution of, 24* 
32 ; exploitation of, 25^ 20. 

Law, 20* 20 ; 30* 27 ; 33* 27 ; 43* 
11 ff.; 47^2; defined, 20* 25 ; 
22* 2 ; 24* 9 ; a subject of de- 
liberative oratory, 23* 23 ; 24* 
8; written )( unwritten, 21^ 36 
ff. ; 46* 24 ; analogies to the 
written I., 22'' 4 ff.; how to speak 
in favour of a 1., 24'' 15 ; against, 
24^ 21 ; see also Legislation. 

Lawful, the, 22^ 1 ; 25'' 40 ; 27* 
26,^39; 28*12; 36*14; 39*9; 
40*ioff.; 42*18; 43*39; 44* 
6 ; 45** 5, 9 ; a topic of persua- 
sion and dissuasion, 21^24, 28; 
its nature demonstrated from 
the contrary, 22'' 19 ff. 


Lawsuits about contracts, 21'' 13. 

Legal, see Lawful. 

Legislation, ideals of, in a demo- 
cratic state, 24*12 ff., ^10; in 
an oligarchy, 24*39 ff-> ^ ^2. 

Leuctra, the battle of, 29*^ 14. 

Lot, appointment to office by, 24* 

Lucidity, how obtained, 38* 26 ; 

46* II. 
Lysithidas, 22^^ 22. 

Magistracies, methods of election 

to, 24» 12 ff., ''I. 
Man, alone possessed of reason, 

' Maxims ', 28* 20 ; 32^ 26 ; 33* 

25; 24* 37; 39* 4, 5> 19. 34, 38; 
40* 23 ; 41* 20, 39, ^ 10 ; 42*' 38 ; 
43*2,^41; defined, 30*40; two 
kinds of m.s, 30^ i ; their em- 
ployment, 30^ 2 ff. ; examples 
of m.s, 30^10 ff. ; )(*enthy- 
memes ', 31*35; )( 'fallible 
signs', 31*39. 

Mercenaries, 46^ 16. 

Metaphorical words, 34^ 34. 

Minimization, rhetorical, 26* 19 ff., 
•^ 13 ff. ; 28* 2, 14 ; 32* 39 ; 36* 
17 ; 39^5, 10; 40*22 ; 41^27; 
43* 10. 

Misrepresentation, see Prejudice. 

Narration, of events, 38* 3 ff. ; 42^ 
30 ; arrangements of facts in, 

38'' 14 ff- 

Necessary, the, a topic of persua- 
sion, 21'' 27; 23*11; 39*10; 
defined, 21* 19. 

Nicanor, 21*38. 

Oath, 28* 22 ; 43* 28 ; defined, 
32* 33 ; treatment of o.s by 
orators, 32* 34 ff. ; of jurors, 

Oligarchy, two kinds of, 46** 24 ; 
legislation in an o., 24* 39 ff. 

' Omission, pretended ', the figure 
of, 38'^ 6 ; 43" 30. 

Opinion, defined, 31'' 9. 

Oracles, 23* 35. 

Oratory, the subjects of, 23* 13 
ff. ; three kinds : Deliberative, 
Epideictic, Forensic {q. v.), 
21" 7, 8 ; 32'' 8 ; and seven 
genera: Persuasion, Dissuasion, 

Eulogy, Vituperation, Accusa- 
tion, Defence, Inquiry {q. v.), 
2I*>8 ff. 

Parian Sophists, 21*32, 

' Parisosis ', 35^ 39 ff. 

' Paromoeosis ', 36* 5 ff. 

Particles, use of, 35* 38. 

Pay, pleading for, 44* 35 ; different 
kinds of pay, 44* 37. 

Peace and war, a subject of de- 
liberative oratory, 23* 25 ; argu- 
ments about, 25* 8 ff. 

Peloponnesians, 29^ 13. 

Peroration, 45* 26; 46*25. 

Persuasion, one of the genera of 
oratory, 21'' 9; 28*1 ; 36*39; 
40* 3, 22 ; 44*' 25 ; defined, 21*' 
20 ; topics of, 21^24 ff. 

Philoctetes of Euripides, quoted, 
33^11 ff. 

Phyle, 29'' 9. 

Pity, appeals to, 39^17, 26 ff. ; 
40*40; 43^17; 45*2. 

Pleasant, the. Pleasure, a topic of 
persuasion and dissuasion, 21*^ 
25, 29 ; 23* 10, '^ 7 ; 26* I ; 27'' 
40; 39* 10, 37 ; defined, 22* 17. 

Pleasingly, how to speak, 34*^ 34, 
^ 27 ; 36* 20. 

Political Oratory, see Deliberatiott. 

' Postulates ', 28* 8 ; 36* 20 ; de- 
fined, 33^ 17 ; just and unjust 
p.s, 33^i8ff. 

Praise, see Eulogy. 

Prejudice, how to deal with, 36'' 

29 ff. ; 42*21 ff. ; how to arouse, 
45b 12 ff. 

' Probabilities ', 28* 19 ; 39* 4 ; 42*" 
39; 43'' 37> 40; their nature, 
38* 25 ff. ; their use, 38'' ll ; )( 
'examples ', 31*24. 

Proem, the, 38'' 16, 24, 28 ; 39'^ 
37; 40*6,^6, 14, 23; 42'' 28, 

30 ; 43*' 23, 27 ; 45>' 37 ; defined 
36* 33 ; its uses, 36* 38 ff. 

Prolixity of speech. 28*9; 34* I ff. 

* Proofs ' (TTio-Tf tf - means of per- 
suasion), 28*4, 16 ff. ; 31* 
21, "5; 32^4; 38*25,^30, 33, 

35; 39*7, 8, "38; 42'' 34; 43'' 
3, i'i3 ; 46*16 ; direct, 38* 17; 
supplementary, 28* 22 ; 31'' 7. 

Public lands, see Latids, public. 

Public speaking, 21^' 12 ; 36^39; 
38*2, 19, '^ 32 ; see also De- 
liberative Oratory. 


Reason, 20*22,25,28, 30,^ 12, 26, 
28 ; 21^ 7 ; peculiar to man, 21* 
1 1 ; the cause of man's happi- 
ness, 21*14; the guide of life, 

' Refutation ', {eXfyxm), 28* 21 ; 
43* 2 ; defined, 31*6 ff. ; ex- 
amples of, 31* 10 ff. ; )( fallible 
signs, 31^ 2. 

Resources, public, a subject of 
deliberative oratory, 23* 26 ; 
arguments about, 25^ 19 ff. ; 
provision of, 46^ 16 ff. 

Rhetoric, see Oratory. 

Rites, sacred, see Sacred rites. 

Sacred rites, Sacrifices, a subject 
of deliberative oratory, 23* 23, 
29 ff. ; the ideal sacrifice, 23'' 34 
ff. ; 46* 36 ff 

Sailors, 24* 28. 

Scoffing, futility of, 41*3 15 ff. 

'Signs', (l) fallible {n^iu'ia), 28* 
20 ; 43* 1,^2; defined, 30^ 30 ; 
their material, 30*^ 38 ; )( 
'maxims', 31*39; j( 'refuta- 
tions', 31'' 2. 

(2) infallible (TeKfj,t')pia), 28* 
20 ; 43* 1 , ** 40 ; defined, 30* 14 ; 
their use, 30*19; )( ' enthy- 
memes ', 31*28; )( 'examples', 

Slaves, evidence of, under torture, 
see Evide7ice. 

Sophists, the Parian, 21*^32. 

Sparta,. 28* 7 ; 35* 17, 

' .Statement ', {fpfit]Vfia), 28* 10 ; 
methods of, 35*4 ff., ^23 ; 36* 

Syracusans, Syracuse, 29^ 16, 18, 
20; 36'' 2, 3; 39*25. 

Taxes, imposition of, 25^25 ; 46^ 

Testimony, 28* 22 ; 31* 2 ; 42^ 36 
43^ 28 ; 46* 24 ; defined, 3 1 ^ 20 
how to support t., 31'' 23 ff. 
how to contradict t., 31^ 33 ff. 
how to disguise t., 32*3 ff. ; see 
also Evidence. 

Thebans, 23* 1,7; 29^ 12. 

Theodectes, the ' Oratorical Art ' 
of, 21^2. 

Timotheus, 35* 14. 

Torch-race, 37^ I. 

Torture of slaves to obtain evi- 
dence, see Evidence. 

Unnecessary, the, a topic of dis- 
suasion, 21'' 30. 

Virtue, 40^ 16 ; its divisions, 
40b 18. 

Vituperation, one of the genera of 
Oratory, 21'' 9 ; 26*^ 20 ; 28* 4 ; 
40** 5 ff. ; defined, 21*^^8; ma- 
terials for, 26* 7 ; 41*^ 13 ff. 

Vote, election by, 24* 14,^2; right 

of, 461^22; of jury, 33*i,9»23; 

43* 18, 34- 
Vowels, 34^^ 35, 37 ; 35* 34, ^ 16. 

War and Peace, see Peace and 

Wisdom, 40^ 19 ; 41^ 5 ; 47'' 5. 

Witness, see Testimony. 

Words, arrangement of letters in, 
34*' 34 ; composite, 34^ 34 ; 
length of, 34** 12, 20; meta- 
phorical, 34*^ 34 ; order of, 34*^ 
38 ff; 35^5ff-;36''36; simple, 
34*' 33; usual, 31*35 ; w.s used 
in several senses, 35'' 19. 

Youth, rhetorical excusefor, 37*39. 




The following translation is a reprint of that printed in 
Professor Bywater's Aristotle on the Art of Poetry (1909). 
To this I have added a short table of contents, a few 
notes, and an index. 

W. D. ROSS. 

August 1924 


(A) Preliminary discourse on tragedy, epic poetry, and comedy, as the 
chief forms of imitative poetry. 


1. The poetic arts distinguished (l) by the means they use. 

2. ,, „ (2) by their objects. 

3. „ „ (3) by the manner of their imita- 

4. Origin and development of poetry and its kinds. 

5. Comedy and epic poetry. 

(B) Definition of a tragedy, and the rules for its construction. 

6. Definition, and analysis into qualitative parts. 
7-1 1. The plot. 

7. Arrangement and length of the play. 

8. Unity of action. 

9. The poet must depict the probable and the universal. 

10. Simple and complex plots. 

11. Peripety, Discovery, and Suffering. 
12. The quantitative parts of a tragedy. 

13-14. How the plot can best produce the emotional effect of tragedy. 

13. The tragic hero. 

14. The tragic deed. 

15. Rules for the character of the tragic personages ; note on the 
use of stage-artifice. 
16-18. Appendix to discussion of plot. 

16. The various forms of discovery. 
17-18. Additional rules for the construction of a play. 
19. The thought of the tragic personages. 
20-22. The diction of tragedy. 

20. The ultimate constituents of language. 

21. The different kinds of terms. 

22. The characteristics of the language of poetry. 

(C) Rules for the construction of an epic. 

23. It must preserve unity of action. 

24. Points of resemblance and of difference between epic poetry and 


(D) 25. Possible criticisms of an epic or tragedy, and the answers to 


(E) 26 Tragedy artistically superior to epic poetry. 


I Our subject being Poetry, I propose to speak not only of 1447^ 
the art in general but also of its species and their respective 
capacities ; of the structure of plot required for a good 
poem; of the number and nature of the constituent parts of 10 
a poem ; and likewise of any other matters in the same line 
of inquiry. Let us follow the natural order and begin with 
the primary facts. 

Epic poetry and Tragedy, as also Comedy, Dithyrambic 
poetry, and most flute-playing and lyre-playing, are all, 15 
viewed as a whole, rn odes of imitation . But at the same 
time they differ from one another in three ways, either by 
a difference of kind in their means, or by differences in the 
objects, or in the manner of their imitations. 

I. Just as colour and form are used as means by some, 
who (whether by art or constant practice) imitate and ' 
portray many things by their aid, and the voice is used by 20 
others ; so also in the above-mentioned group of arts, the 
means with them as a whole are rhythm, language, and 
harmony — used, however, either singly cr in certain com- 
binations. A combination of harmony and rhythm alone is 
the means in flute-playing and lyre-playing, and any other 
arts there may be of the same description, e. g. imitative 25 
piping. Rhythm alone, without harmony, is the means 
in the dancer's imitations ; for even he, by the rhythms 
of his attitudes, may represent men's characters, as well as 
what they do and suffer. There is further an art which 
imitates by language alone, without harmony, in prose or 
in verse, and if in verse, either in some one or in a plurality 1447' 
of metres. This form of imitation is to this day without a 
name. We have no common name for a mime of Sophron ^° 
or Xenarchus and a Socratic Conversation ; and we should 
still be without one even if the imitation in the two 

1447" I^E POETICA 

instances were in trimeters or elegiacs or some other kind 
of verse — though it is the way with people to tack on * poet ' 
to the name of a metre, and talk of elegiac-poets and epic- 
poets, t hinking that th^ y^ c^U them poets not by reason of 

15 t he imita tivej iature of jtheir^ work^ but indiscriminately by 

reason_of ^e-jnetre-they write-in. Even if a theory of 
medicine or physical philosophy be put forth in a metrical 
form, it is usual to describe the writer in this way ; Homer 
\ and EmpedocleSj however, have really nothing in common 
apart from their metre ; so that, if the one is to be called a 

20 poet, the other should be termed a physicist rather than a 
poet. We should be in the same position also, if the 
imitation in these instances were in all the metres, like 
the Centaur (a rhapsody in a medley of all metres) of 
Chaeremon ; and Chaeremon one has to recognize as a poet. 
So much, then, as to these arts. There are, lastly, certain 
other arts, which combine all the means enumerated, 

25 rhythm, melody, and verse, e.g. Dithyrambic and Nomic 
poetry, Tragedy and Comedy ; with this difference, how- 
ever, that the three kinds of means are in some of them all 
employed together, and in others brought in separately, 
one after the other. These elements of difference in the 
above arts I term the means of their imitation. 

1448^ II. The objects the imitator represents are actions, with 2 
agents who are necessarily either good men or bad — the 
diversities of human character being nearly always deriva- 
tive from this primary distinction, since the line between 
virtue and vice is one dividing the whole of mankind. It 
follows, therefore, that the agents represented must be 
either above our own level of goodness, or beneath it, or 
5 just such as we are ; in the same way as, with the painters, 
the personages of Polygnotus are better than we are, those 
of Pauson worse, and those of Dionysius just like ourselves. 
It is clear that each of the above-mentioned arts will admit 
of these differences, and that it will become a separate art 
by representing objects with this point of difference. Even 
in dancing, flute-playing, and lyre-playing such diversities 
10 are possible ; and they are also possible in the nameless 

CHAPTER 2 1448^ 

art that uses language, prose or verse without harmony, as 
its means ; Homer's personages, for instance, are better 
than we are ; Cleophon's are on our own level ; and those 
of Hegemon of Thasos, the first writer of parodies, and 
Nicochares, the author of the Diliad, are beneath it. The 
same is true of the Dithyramb and the Nome: the 15 
personages may be presented in them with the difference 
exemplified in the . . . of . . . and Argas, and in the 
Cyclopses of Timotheus and Philoxenus. This difference 
it is that distinguishes Tragedy and Comedy also ; the on e 
w ould make its personages worse, and the other bette r, 
than the men of the present d ay. 

3 HI. A third difference in these arts is in the manner in 
which each kind of object is represented. Given both the 20 
same means and the same kind of object for imitation, one 
may either (i) speak at one moment in narrative and at 
another in an assumed character, as Homer does ; or (2) 
one may remain the same throughout, without any such 
change ; or (3) the imitators may represent the whole 
story dramatically, as though they were actually doing the 
things described. 

As we said at the beginning, therefore, the differences in 
the imitation of t hese arts com e undgr_l hree heads, the ir 
means, their object s, and thei r manner. 

So that as an imitator Sophocles will be on one side akin 35 
to Homer, both portraying good men ; and on another to 
Aristophanes, since both present their personages as acting 
and doing. This in fact, according to some, is the reason 
for plays being termed dramas, because in a play the person- 
ages act the story. Hence too both Tragedy and Comedy 2,0 
are claimed by the Dorians as their discoveries ; Comedy 
by the Megarians — by those in Greece as having arisen 
when Megara became a democracy, and by the Sicilian 
Megarians on the ground that the poet Epicharmus was of 
their country, and a good deal earlier than Chionides and 
Magnes ; even Tragedy also is claimed by certain of the 
Peloponnesian Dorians. In support of this claim they 
point to the words 'comedy' and 'drama' Their word 35 


for the outlying hamlets, they say, is coniae^ whereas 
Athenians call them demes — thus assuming that comedians 
got the name not from their comoe or revels, but from their 
strolling from hamlet to hamlet, lack of appreciation 
1448'' keeping them out of the city. Their word also for ' to act ', 
they say, is dran, whereas Athenians Mse prattein. 

So much, then, as to the number and nature of the points 
of difference in the imitation of these arts. 


{ft^n yo It is clear that the general origin of poetry was due to 4 

■ ^ \A -s 5 *^^ causes, each of them part of human nature. Imitation 
y^ is natural to man from childhood, one of his advantages 

over the lower animals being this, that he is the most 
imitative creature in the world, and learns at first by 
imitation. And it is also natural for all to delight in works 
of imitation. The truth of this second point is shown by 

lo experience: though the objects themselves may be painful 
to see, we delight to view the most realistic representations 
of them in art, the forms for example of the lowest animals 
and of dead bodies. The explanation is to be found in a 
further fact : to be learning something is the greatest of 
pleasures not only to the philosopher but also to the rest of 

15 mankind, however small their capacity for it ; the reason 
of the delight in seeing the picture is that one is at the 
same time learning — gathering the meaning of things, e. g. 
that the man there is so-and-so ; for if one has not seen the 
thing before, one's pleasure will not be in the picture as an 
imitation of it, but will be due to the execution or colouring 

20 or some similar cause. Imitation, then, being natural to us 
— as also the sense of harmony and rhythm, the metres being 
obviously species of rhythms — it was through their original 
aptitude, and by a series of improvements for the most part 
gradual on their first efforts, that they created poetry out 
of their improvisations. 

Poetry, however, soon broke up into two kinds according 

35 to the differences of character in the individual poets ; for 
the graver among them would represent noble actions, and 
those of noble personages ; and the meaner sort the actions 
of the ignoble. The latter class produced invectives at 

CHAPTER 4 1448^ 

first, just as others did hymns and panegyrics. We know 
of no such poem by any of the pre-Homeric poets, though 
there were probably many such writers among them ; 
instances^ however, may be found from Homer downwards, 
e. g. his Margites, and the similar poems of others. In this 30 
poetry of invective its natural fitness brought an iambic 
metre into use ; hence our present term ' iambic ', because 
it was the metre of their ' iambs ' or invectives against one 
another. The result was that the old poets became some 
of them writers of heroic and others of iambic verse. 
Homer's position, however, is peculiar: just as he was in 
the serious style the poet of poets, standing alone not only 35 
through the literary excellence, but also through the 
dramatic character of his imitations, so too he was the first 
to outline for us the general forms of Comedy by producing 
not a dramatic invective, but a dramatic picture of the 
Ridiculous ; his Margites in fact stands in the same relation 
to our comedies as the Iliad and Odyssey to our tragedies. 1449^ 
As soon, however, as Tragedy and Comedy appeared in 
the field, those naturally drawn to the one line of poetry 
became writers of comedies instead of iambs, and those .=; 
naturally drawn to the other, writers of tragedies instead of 
epics, because these new modes of art were grander and of 
more esteem than the old. 

If it be asked whether Tragedy is now all that it need be 
in its formative elements, to consider that, and decide it 
theoretically and in relation to the theatres, is a matter for 
another inquiry. 

It certainly began in improvisations — as did also Comedy ; 10 
the one originating with the authors of the Dithyramb, the 
other with those of the phallic songs, which still survive as 
institutions in many of our cities. And its advance after 
that was little by little, through their improving on what- 
ever they had before them at each stage. It was in fact 
only after a long series of changes that the movement of 
Tragedy stopped on its attaining to its natural form. (1)15 
The number of actors was first increased to two by 
Aeschylus, who curtailed the business of the Chorus, and 
made the dialogue, or spoken portion, take the leading part 


in the play. (2) A third actor and scenery were due to 
Sophocles. (3) Tragedy acquired also its magnitude. Dis- 

20 carding short stories and a ludicrous diction, through its 
passing out of its satyric stage, it assumed, though only at 
a late point in its progress, a tone of dignity ; and its metre 
changed then from trochaic to iambic. The reason for 
their original use of the trochaic tetrameter was that their 
poetry was' satyric and more connected with dancing than 
it now is. As soon, however, as a spoken part came in, 
nature herself found the appropriate metre. The iambic, 

25 we know, is the most speakable of metres, as is shown by 
the fact that we very often fall into it in conversation, 
whereas we rarely talk hexameters, and only when we 
depart from the speaking tone of voice. (4) Another 
change was a plurality of episodes or acts. As for the 
remaining matters, the superadded embellishments and the 
account of their introduction, these must be taken as said, 

30 as it would probably be a long piece of work to go through 
the details. 

As for Comedy, it is (as has been observed ^) an imitation^ 
of men worse than the average ; worse, however, not as 
regards any and every sort of fault, but only as regards one 
particular kind, the Ridiculous, which is a species of the 
Ugly. The Ridiculous may be defined as a mistake or 
35 deformity not productive of pain or harm to others ; the 
mask, for instance, that excites laughter, is something ugly 
and distorted without causing pain. 

Though the successive changes in Tragedy and their 
authors are not unknown, we cannot say the same of 
Comedy ; its early stages passed unnoticed, because it was 
1449'' not as yet taken up in a serious way. It was only at a late 
point in its progress that a chorus of comedians was 
officially granted by the archon ; they used to be mere 
volunteers. It had also already certain definite forms at 
the time when the record of those termed comic poets be- 
gins. Who it was who supplied it with masks, or prologues, 
or a plurality of actors and the like, has remained unknown. 
5 The invented Fable, or Plot, however, originated in Sicily, 

» 1448M7; 1448*' 37. 

CHAPTER 5 1449b 

with Epicharmus and Phormis ; of Athenian poets Crates 
was the first to drop the Comedy of invective and frame 
stories of a general and non-personal nature, in other words, 
Fables or Plots. 

Epic poetry, then, has been seen to agree with Tragedy 
to this extent, that of being a n imit ation of serious subjects to 
in a grand kind of verse . It differs from it, however, (i) in 
that it is in one kind of verse and in narrative form ; and 
(2) in its length — which is due to its action having no fixed 
limit of time, whereas Tragedy endeavours to keep as far as 
possible within a single circuit of the sun, or something near 
that. This, I say, is another point of difference between 
them, though at first the practice in this respect was just the 15 
same in tragedies as in epic poems. They differ also (3) in 
their constituents, some being common to both and others 
peculiar to Tragedy — hence a judge of good and bad in 
Tragedy is a judge of that in epic poetry also. All the 
parts of an epic are included in Tragedy ; but those of 
Tragedy are not all of them to be found in the Epic. 

6 Reserving hexameter poetry and Comedy for considera- ao 

tion hereafter,^ let us proceed now to the discussion of 

Tragedy ; before doing so, however, we must gather up the 

definition resulting from what has been said. , A tragedy, 

then, IS the imitation of an action that is serious and also, 

as having magnitude, complete in itself; in language with 35 

pleasurable accessories, each kind brought in separately in 

the parts of the work ; in a dramatic, not in a narrative 

form ; with incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to 

accomplish its catharsis of such emotions. Here by 

' language with pleasurable accessories ' I mean that with 

rhythm and harmony or song superadded ; and by 'the kinds 

separately ^Tlnean that some portions are worked out with 30 

verse only, and others in turn with song. 

I. As they act the stories, it follows that in the first place 

the Spectacle (or stage-appearance of the actors) must be 

some part of the whole ; and in the second j/Ielod y and 

Diction, these two being the means of their imitation/^ 1 ere 

^ For hexameter poetry cf. chap. 23 f. ; comedy was treated of in the 
lost Second Book. 

C45.10 X 


by ' Diction ' I mean merely this, the composition of the 

35 verses ; and by * Melody ', what is too completely understood 
to require explanation. But further : the subject repre- 
sented also is an action ; and the action involves agents, 
who must necessarily have their distinctive qualities both 
of character and thought, since it is from these that we 
1450^ ascribe certain qualities to their actions. There are in the 
natural order of things, therefore, two causes, Thought and 
Character, of their actions, and consequently of their success 
or failure in their lives. Now the action (that which was 
done) is represented in the play by the Fable or Plot. The 
Fable, in our present sense of the term, is simply this, the 
combination of the incidents, or things done in the story ; 
5 whereas Character is what makes us ascribe certain moral 
qualities to the agents ; and Thought is shown in all they 
say when proving a particular point or, it may be, enunciating 
a general truth, Xh^ie are six parts consequently of every 
tragedy, as a whole (that is) of such or such quality, viz. 
a Fable or Plot, Characters, Diction, Thought, Spectacle, 

10 and Melody ; two of them arising from the means, one from 
the manner, and three from the objects of the dramatic 
? imitation ; and there is nothing else besides these six. Of 
these, its formative elements, then, not a few of the 
dramatists have made due use, as every play, one may say, 
admits of Spectacle, Character, Fable, Diction, Melody, 
and Thought. 

15 II. The most important of the six is the combination 
of the incidents of the story. Tragedy is essentially an 
I imitation not of persons but of action and life, of happiness 
I and misery. All human happiness or misery takes the form 
of action ; the end for which we live is a certain kind of 
activity, not a quality. Cha racter gives us qualities, but it 
is in our actions— wh at we do — that we are happy or the 

20 reverse. In a play accordingly they do not act in order to 
portray the Characters ; they include the Characters for 
the sake of the action. So that it is the action in it, i.e. its 
Fable or PloVthatJs^the^ end and4)urpQse of the tragedy; 
and the end is everyw here the chief thing. Besides this, 
a tragedy is impossible without action, but there may be 

CHAPTER 6 1450 

one without Character. The tragedies of most of the 25 
moderns are characterless — a defect common among poets 
of all kinds, and with its counterpart in painting in Zeuxis 
as compared with Polygnotus ; for whereas the latter is 
strong in character, the work of Zeuxis is devoid of it. And 
again : one may string together a series of characteristic 
speeches of the utmost finish as regards Diction and 
Thought, and yet fail to produce the true tragic effect ; but 30 
one will have much better success with a tragedy which, 
however inferior in these respects, has a Plot, a combination 
of incidents, in it. And again : the most powerful elements 
of attraction in Tragedy, the Peripeties and Discoveries, are 
parts of the Plot. A further proof is in the fact that be- 35 
ginners succeed earlier with the Diction and Characters 
than with the construction of a story ; and the same may 
be said of nearly all the early dramatists. We maintain, 
therefore, that the first essential, the life and soul, so to 
speak, of Tragedy is the Plot ; and that the Characters 
come second — compare the parallel in painting, where the 1450*^ 
most beautiful colours laid on without order will not give 
one the same pleasure as a simple black-and-white sketch 
of a portrait. We maintain that Tra gedy is primarily an 
i mitation of action, and tha t it is mainly for the sake of th e 
a ction that it imitates th ^__ personal ag ents. Third comes 
the element of Thought, i.e. the power of saying whatever 5 
can be said, or what is appropriate to the occasion. This 
is what, in the speeches in Tragedy, falls under the arts of 
Politics and Rhetoric ; for the older poets make their 
personages discourse like statesmen, and the moderns like 
rhetoricians. One must not confuse it with Character. 
Character in a play is that which reveals the moral purpose 
of the agents, i.e. the sort of thing they seek or avo id, where 
that is not obvious — hence there is no room for ('haracter 
in a speech on a purely indifferent subject. Thought, on 10 
the other hand, is shown in all they say when proving or 
disproving some particular point, or enunciating some 
universal proposition. Fourth among the literary elements 
is the Diction of the personages, i.e., as before explained,' 

' 1449'' 34- 
X 2 



the expression of their thoughts in words, which is practically 
15 the same thing with verse as with prose. As for the two 
remaining parts, the Melody is the greatest of the pleasur- 
able accessories of Tragedy. The Spectacle, though an 
attraction, is the least artistic of all the parts, and has least 
to do with the art of poetry. The tragic effect is quite 
possible without a public performance and actors; and 
besides, the*getting-up of the Spectacle is more a matter 
20 for the costumier than the poet. 

Having thus distinguished the parts, let us now consider 7 
the proper construction of the Fable or Plot, as that is at 
once the first and the most important thing in Tragedy. 
We have laid it down that a tragedy is an imitation of an 
action that is complete in itself, as a whole of some magni- 

25 tude ; for a whole may be of no magnitude to speak of. 
Now a whole is that which has beginning, middle, and end. 
A beginning is that which is not itself necessarily after 
anything else, and which has naturally something else after 
it ; an end is that which is naturally after something itself, 

30 either as its necessary or usual consequent, and with nothing 
else after it ; and a middle, that which is by nature after 
one thing and has also another after it. A well-constructed 
Plot, therefore, cannot either begin or end at any point one 
likes ; beginning and end in it must be of the forms just 
described. Again : to be beautiful, a living creature, and 

35 every whole made up of parts, . must not only present 
a certain order in its arrangement of parts, but also be of 
a certain definite magnitude. Beauty is a matter of size 
and order, and therefore impossible either (i) in a very 
minute creature, since our perception becomes indistinct as 
it approaches instantaneity ; or (2) in a creature of vast 
size — one, say, 1,000 miles long — as in that case, instead of 
1451^ the object being seen all at once, the unity and wholeness 
of it is lost to the beholder. Just in the same way, then, 
as a beautiful whole made up of parts, or a beautiful living 
creature, must be of some size, but a size to be taken in by 
b the eye, so a story or Plot must be of some length, but of 
a length to be taken in by the memory. As for the limit of 

CHAPTER 7 1451 

its length, so far as that is relative to public performances 
and spectators, it does not fall within the theory of poetry. 
If they had to perform a hundred tragedies, they would be 
timed by water-clocks, as they are said to have been at one 
period. The limit, however, set by the actual nature of the 
thing is this : the longer the story, consistently with its 10 
being comprehensible as a whole, the finer it is by reason of 
its magnitude. As a rough general formula, ' a length 
which allows of the hero passing by a series of probable or 
necessary stages from misfortune to happiness, or from 
happiness to misfortune', may suffice as a limit for tlie 
magnitude of the story. 15 

8 The Unity of a Plot does not consist, as some suppose, 
in its having one man as its subject. An infinity of things 
befall that one man, some of which it is impossible to 
reduce to unity ; and in like manner there are many actions 
of one man which cannot be made to form one action. One 
sees, therefore, the mistake of all the poets who have 20 
written a Heracleid, a Tkeseid, or similar poems ; they 
suppose that, because Heracles was one man, the story also 
of Heracles must be one story. Homer, however, evidently 
understood this point quite well, whether by art or instinct, 
just in the same way as he excels the rest in every other 
respect. In writing an Odyssey, he did not make the poem 
cover all that ever befell his hero — it befell him, for instance, 25 
to get wounded on Parnassus and also to feign madness at 
the time of the call to arms, but the two incidents had no 
necessary or probable connexion with one another — instead 
of doing that, he took as the subject of the Odyssey, as also 
of the Iliad, an action with a Unity of the kind we are 
describing. The truth is that, just as in the other imitative 30 
arts, one imitation is always of one thing, so in poetry the 
story, as an imitation of action, must represent one action , 
a complete whole, with its several incidents so closely 
connected that the transposal or withdrawal of any one of 
them will disjoin and dislocate the whole. For that which 
makes no perceptible difference by its presence or absence 
is no real part of the whole. 35 



-y^ From what we have said it will be seen that the poet's 9 
function is to describe, not the thing that has happened, but 
a kind of thing that might happen, i. e. what is possible as 
being probable or necessary. The distinction between 
1451 historian and poet is not in the one writing prose and the 
other verse — you might put the work of Herodotus into 
verse, and it would still be a species of history ; it consists 
really in this, that the one describes the thing that has been, 
5 and the other a kind of thing that might be. Hence poetry 
is something more philosophic and of graver import than 
history, since its statements are of the nature rather of 
\\ universals, whereas those of history are singulars. By a 
universal statement I mean one as to what such or such 
a kind of man will probably or necessarily say or do — which 
is the aim of poetry, though it affixes proper names to the 
10 characters ; by a singular statement, one as to what, say, 
Alcibiades did or had done to him. In Comedy this has 
become clear by this time; it is only when their plot is 
already made up of probable incidents that they give it 
a basis of proper names, choosing for the purpose any 
names that may occur to them, instead of writing like the 
1 5 old iambic poets about particular persons. In Tragedy, 
however, they still adhere to the historic names ; and for 
this reason : what convinces is the possible ; now whereas 
we are not yet sure as to the possibility of that which has 
not happened, that which has happened is manifestly 
possible, else it would not have come to pass. Nevertheless 
even in Tragedy there are some plays with but one or two 
20 known names in them, the rest being inventions ; and there 
are some without a single known name, e. g. Agathon's 
Antheus,\r\ which both incidents and names are of the poet's 
invention ; and it is no less delightful on that account. So 
that one must not aim at a rigid adherence to the tradi- 
25 tional stories on which tragedies are based. It would be 
absurd, in fact, to do so, as even the known stories are only 
known to a few, though they are a delight none the less 
to all. 

It is evident from the above that the poet must be more 
the poet of his stories or Plots than of his verses, inasmuch 

CHAPTER g J451* 

as he is a poet by virtue of the imitative element in his work, 
and it is actions that he imitates. And if he should come 
to take a subject from actual history, he is none the less 
a poet for that ; since some historic occurrences may very 30 
well be in the probable and possible order of things ; and it 
is in that aspect of them that he is their poet. 

Of simple Plots and actions the episodic are the worst. 
I call a Plot episodic when there is neither probability nor 
necessity in the sequence of its episodes. Actions of this 35 
sort bad poets construct through their own fault, and good 
ones on account of the players. His work being for public 
performance, a good poet often stretches out a Plot beyond 
its capabilities, and is thus obliged to twist the sequence of 

Tragedy, however, is an imitation not only of a comple te 1452* 
a ction, but also of incidents arousing pity and fe ar. Such 
incidents have the very greatest effect on the mind when 
they occur unexpectedly and at the same time in con- 
sequence of one another ; there is more of the marvellous in 
them then than if they happened of themselves or by mere ,=; 
chance. Even matters of chance seem most marvellous if 
there is an appearance of design as it were in them ; as for 
instance the statue of Mitys at Argos killed the author of 
Mitys' death by falling down on him when a looker-on at 
a public spectacle ; for incidents like that we think to be 
not without a meaning. A Plot, therefore, of this sort is 10 
necessarily finer than others. 

10 Plots are either simple or complex, since the actions they 
represent are naturally of this twofold description. The 
action, proceeding in the way defined, as one continuous 15 
whole, I call simple, when the change in the hero's fortunes 
takes place without Peripety or Discovery ; and complex, 
when it involves one or the other, or both. These should 
each of them arise out of the structure of the Plot itself, so 
as to be the consequence, necessary or probable, of the 
antecedents. There is a great difference between a thing 20 
happening \propter hoc and post hoc. 

n A Peripety is the change of the kind described from one 


state of things within the play to its opposite, and that too 
in the way we are saying, in the probable or necessary 

25 sequence of events ; as it is for instance in Oedipus : here 
the opposite state of things is produced by the Messenger, 
who, coming to gladden Oedipus and to remove his fears as 
to his mother, reveals the secret of his birth.^ And in 
Lyncetis-^ just as he is being led off for execution, with 
Danaus at his side to put him to death, the incidents 
preceding this bring it about that he is saved and Danaus 

30 put to death. A Discovery is, as the very word implies, 
a change from ignorance to knowledge, and thus to either 
love or hate, in the personages marked for good or evil 
fortune. The finest form of Discovery is one attended by 
Peripeties, like that which goes with the Discovery in 
Oedipus'. There are no doubt other forms of it ; what we 
have said may happen in a way in reference to inanimate 

35 things, even things of a very casual kind ; and it is also 
possible to discover whether some one has done or not done 
something. But the form most directly connected with the 
Plot and the action of the piece is the first-mentioned. 
1452** This, with a Peripety, will arouse either pity or fear — actions 
of that nature being what Tragedy is assumed to represent ; 
and it will also serve to bring about the happy or unhappy 
ending. The Discovery, then, being of persons, it may be 
that of one party only to the other, the latter being already 
5 known ; or both the parties may have to discover themselves. 
Iphigenia, for instance, was discovered to Orestes by sending 
the letter ; ^ and another Discovery was required to reveal 
him to Iphigenia. 

Two parts of the Plot, then, Peripety and Discovery, are 

10 on matters of this sort. A third part is Suffering ; which 
we may define as an action of a destructive or painful nature, 
such as murders on the stage, tortures, woundings, and the 
like. The other two have been already explained. 

The parts of Tragedy to be treated as formative elements 12 
15 in the whole were mentioned in a previous Chapter.'* From 
the point of view, however, of its quantity, i. e. the separate 

^ O. T. 911-1085. ^ By Theodectes. " iph. Taur. 727 ff. 

* Ch. 6. 

CHAPTER 12 1452'' 

sections into which it is divided, a tragedy has the following 
parts : Prologue, Episode, Exode, and a choral portion, 
distinguished into Parode and Stasimon ; these two are 
common to all tragedies, whereas songs from the stage and 
Comnioe are only found in some. The Prologue is all that 20 
precedes the Parode of the chorus ; an Episode all that 
comes in between two whole choral songs ; the Exode all 
that follows after the last choral song. In the choral 
portion the Parode is the whole first statement of the 
chorus ; a Stasimon, a song of the chorus without anapaests 
or trochees ; a Commos, a lamentation sung by chorus and 
actor in concert. The parts of Tragedy to be used as 25 
formative elements in the whole we have already men- 
tioned ; the above are its parts from the point of View of its 
quantity, or the separate sections into which it is divided. 

13 The next points after what we have said above will be 
these: (i) What is the poet to aim at, and what is he to 
avoid, in constructing his Plots ? and (2) What are the 
conditions on which the tragic effect depends ? 

We assume that, for the finest form of Tragedy, the Plot 3° 
must be not simple but complex ; and further, that it must 
imitate actions arousing fear and pity, since that is the 
distinctive function of this kind of imitation. It follows, 
therefore, that there are three forms of Plot to be avoided. 
(1) A good man must not be seen passing from happiness 
to misery, or (2) a bad man from misery to happiness. 
The first situation is not fear-inspiring or piteous, but simply 35 
odious to us. The second is the most untragic that can be ; 
it has no one of the requisites of Tragedy ; it does not 
appeal either to the human feeling in us, or to our pity, or 
to our fears. Nor, on the other hand, should (3) an 1453^ 
extremely bad man be seen falling from happiness into 
misery. Such a story may arouse the human feeling in us, 
but it will not move us to either pity or fear ; pity is 5 
occasioned by undeserved misfortune, and fear by that ot 
one like ourselves ; so that there will be nothing cither 
piteous or fear-inspiring in the situation. There remains, 
then, the intermediate kind of personage, a man not pre- 


' eminently virtuous and just, whose misfortune, however, is 
brought upon him not by vice and depravity but by some 

lo^rror of judgement, of the number of those in the enjoyment 
of great reputation and prosperity ; e. g. Oedipus, Thyestes, 
and the men of note of similar families. The perfect Plot, 
accordingly, must have a single, and not (as some tell us) 
a double issue ; the change in the hero's fortunes must be 
not from misery to happiness, but on the contrary from 

15 happiness to misery ; and the cause of it must lie not in 
any depravity, but in some great error on his part ; the 
man himself being either such as we have described, or 
better, not worse, than that. Fact also confirms our theory. 
Though the poets began by accepting any tragic story that 
came to hand, in these days the finest tragedies are always 

20 on the story of some few houses, on that of Alcmeon, 
Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes, Telephus, or any 
others that may have been involved, as either agents or 
sufferers, in some deed of horror. The theoretically best 
tragedy, then, has a Plot of this description. The critics, 
therefore, are wrong who blame Euripides for taking this 

25 line in his tragedies, and giving many of them an unhappy 
ending. It is, as we have said, the right line to take. The 
best proof is this : on the stage, and in the public perform- 
ances, such plays, properly worked out, are seen to be the 
most truly tragic ; and Euripides, even if his execution be 
faulty in every other point, is seen to be nevertheless the 

30 most tragic certainly of the dramatists. After this comes 
the construction of Plot which some rank first, one with 
a double story (like the Odyssey) and an opposite issue for 
the good and the bad personages. It is ranked as first only 
through the weakness of the audiences ; the poets merely 

35 follow their public, writing as its wishes dictate. But the 
pleasure here is not that of Tragedy. It belongs rather to 
Comedy, where the bitterest enemies in the piece (e. g. 
Orestes and Aegisthus) walk off good friends at the end, 
with no slaying of any one by any one. 

HSS'' The tragic fear and pity may be aroused by the 14 
Spectacle ; but they may also be aroused by the very 


CHAPTER 14 I453t> 

structure and incidents of the play — which is the better 
way and shows the better poet. The Plot in fact should be 
so framed that, even without seeing the things take place, 
he who simply hears the account of them shall be filled with 5 
horror and pity at the incidents ; which is just the effect 
that the mere recital of the story in Oedipus would have 
on one. To produce this same effect by means of the 
Spectacle is less artistic, and requires extraneous aid. 
Those, however, who make use of the Spectacle to put 
before us that which is merely monstrous and not pro- 
ductive of fear, are wholly out of touch with Tragedy; not 10 
every kind of pleasure should be required of a tragedy, but 
only its own proper pleasure. 

The tragic pleasure is that of pity and fear, and the poet 
has to produce it by a work of imitation ; it is clear, there- 
fore, that the causes should be included in the incidents of 
his story. Let us see, then, what kinds of incident strike 
one as horrible, or rather as piteous. In a deed of this 15 
description the parties must necessarily be either friends, or 
enemies, or indifferent to one another. Now when enemy 
does itj)n enemy, there is nothing to move us to pity either 
in his doing or in his meditating the deed, except so far as 
the actual pain of the sufferer is concerned ; and the same 
is true when the parties are indifferent to one another. 
Whenever the tragic deed, however, is done within the 
family — when murder or the like is done or meditated by 20 
brother on brother, by son on father, by mother on son, or 
son on mother — these are the situations the poet should seek 
after. The traditional stories, accordingly, must be kept as 
they are, e. g. the murder of Clytaemnestra by Orestes and 
of Eriphyle by Alcmeon. At the same time even with 
these there is something left to the poet himself; it is for ?.s 
him to devise the right way of treating them. Let us 
explain more clearly what we mean by * the right way '. 
The deed of horror may be done by the doer knowingly 
and consciously, as in the old poets, and in Medea's murder 
oTTier children in Euripides.^ Or he may do it, but in 
ignorance of his relationship, and discover that afterwards, 3° 

' Med. 1236. 

1453^ DE POETIC A 

as does the Oedipus in Sophocles. Here the deed is 
outside the play ; but it may be within it, like the act of 
the Alcmeon in Astydamas, or that of the Telegonus in 
Ulysses Wounded} A third possibility is for one meditating 

35 some deadly injury to another, in ignorance of his relation- 
ship, to make the discovery in time to draw back. These 
exhaust the possibilities, since the deed must necessarily 
be either done or not done, and either knowingly or 

The worst situation is when the personage is with full 
knowledge on the point of doing the deed, and leaves it 
undone. It is odious and also (through the absence of 
suffering) untragic ; hence it is that no one is made to act 
'454 thus except m some few instances, e. g. Haemon and 
Creon in Antigone^^ Next after this comes the actual 
perpetration of the deed meditated. A better situation 
than that, however, is for the deed to be done in ignorance, 
and the relationship discovered afterwards, since there is 
nothing odious in it, and the Discovery will serve to astound 
5 us. But the best of all is the last ; what we have in 
Cresphontes^ for example, where Merope, on the point of 
slaying her son, recognizes him in time ; in Iphigenia, where 
sister and brother are in a like position ; and in Helle^ where 
the son recognizes his mother, when on the point of giving 
her up to her enemy. 

This will explain why our tragedies are restricted (as we 

lo said just now) ^ to such a small number of families. It was 
accident rather than art that led the poets in quest of 
subjects to embody this kind of incident in their Plots. 
They are still obliged, accordingly, to have recourse to the 
families in which such horrors have occurred. 

On the construction of the Plot, and the kind of Plot 

15 required for Tragedy, enough has now been said. 

In the Characters there are four points to aim at. First 15 
and foremost, that they shall be good. There will be an 
element of character in the play, if (as has been observed)^ 
what a personage sa ys or_ does reveals a certain moral 

' Perhaps by Sophocles. * 1. 1231. * By Euripides. 

* Authorship unknown. 1453*19' * 1450'' 8. 

CHAPTER 15 1454' 

purpose ; and a good element of character, if the purpose 

so revealed is good. Such goodness is possible in every I 
type of personage, even ni a woman or a slave, though the 20 
oiieTs perhaps an inferior, and the other a wholly worthless 
being. The second point is to make them appropriate. - 
The Character before us may be, say, manly ; but it is not 
appropriate in a female Character to be manly, or clever. 
The third is to make them like the reality, which is not 
the same as their being good and appropriate, in our sense '5 
of the term. The fourth is to make them consistent and 
the same throughout ; even if inconsistency be part of the 
man before one for imitation as presenting that form of 
character, he should still be consistently inconsistent. We 
have an instance of baseness of character, not required for 
the story, in the Menelaus in Orestes ; of the incongruous 
and unbefitting in the lamentation of Ulysses in Scylla} and 3° 
in the (clever) speech of Melanippe;^ and of inconsistency 
in Iphigenia at Aulis^ where Iphigenia the suppliant is 
utterly unlike the later Iphigenia. The right thing, however, 
is in the Characters just as in the incidents of the play to 
endeavour always after the necessary or the probable ; so that 35 
whenever such-and-such a personage says or does such-and- 
such a thing, it shall be the necessary or probable outcome of 
his character ; and whenever this incident follows on that, it 
shall be either the necessary or the probable consequence 
of it. From this one sees (to digress for a moment) that 
the Denouement also should arise out of the plot itself, and 1454 
not depend on a stage-artifice, as in Medea^ or in the story 
of the (arrested) departure of the Greeks in the Iliad.^ 
The artifice must be reserved for matters outside the play 
— for past events beyond human knowledge, or events yet 
to come, which require to be foretold or announced ; since 5 
it is the privilege of the Gods to know everything. There 
should be nothing improbable among the actual incidents. 
If it be unavoidable, however, it should be outside the 
tragedy, like the improbability in the Oedipus of Sophocles. 
But to return to the Characters. As Tragedy is an imita- 

> A dithyramb by Timotheus. ' (Euripides). 

» 11. 1211 ff., 1368 ff. ' 1. 1317- ' '•• 155- 

1454^' DE POETICA 

tion of personages better than the ordinary man, we in our 
way should follow the example of good portrait-painters, 

10 who reproduce the distinctive features of a man, and at 
the same time, without losing the likeness, make him 
handsomer than he is. The poet in like manner, in 
portraying men quick or slow to anger, or with similar 
infirmities of character, must know how to represent them 
as such, and at the same time as good men, as Agathon 
and Homer have represented Achilles. 

15 All these rules one must keep in mind throughout, and, 
further, those also for such points of stage-effect as directly 
depend on the art of the poet, since in these too one 
may often make mistakes. Enough, however, has been 
said on the subject in one of our published writings.^ 

Discovery in general has been explained already.^ As 16 

20 for the species of Discovery, the first to be noted is (i) the 
least artistic form of it, of which the poets make most use 
through mere lack of invention, Discovery by signs or 
marks. Of these signs some are congenital, like the ' lance- 
head which the Earth-born have on them ',^ or ' stars ', such 
as Carcinus brings in his Thyestes; others acquired after 
birth— these latter being either marks on the body, e.g. 
scars, or external tokens, like necklaces, or (to take another 

25 sort of instance) the ark in the Discovery in Tyro.^ Even 
these, however, admit of two uses, a better and a worse ; 
the scar of Ulysses is an instance ; the Discovery of him 
through it is made in one way by the nuise ^ and in another 
by the swineherds.^ A Discovery using signs as a means of 
assurance is less artistic, as indeed are all such as imply re- 
flection ; whereas one bringing them in all of a sudden, 

3c as in the Bath-story,'' is of a better order. Next after these 
are (2) Discoveries made directly by the poet ; which are 
inartistic for that very reason ; e. g. Orestes' Discovery of 
himself in IpJiigenia : whereas his sister reveals who she 
is by the letter,* Orestes is made to say himself what the 

35 poet rather than the story demands." This, therefore, is not 

^ In the lost dialogue On Poets. "^ 1452" 29. 
' Authorship unknown, * By Euripides. " O^. xix. 386-475. 

® Od. xxi. 205-25. '' Od. xix. 392. * Iph. Tatir. 727 ff. 

» lb., 800 ff. 

CHAPTER i6 1454^ 

far removed from the first-mentioned fault, since he might 
have presented certain tokens as well. Another instance 
is the ' shuttle's voice ' in the Tereus of Sophocles. (3) A 
third species is Discovery through memory, from a man's 
consciousness being awakened by something seen. Thus 1455* 
in The Cyprioe of Dicaeogenes, the sight of the picture 
makes the man burst into tears ; and in the Tale of 
Alcinous} hearing the harper Ulysses is reminded of the past 
and weeps ; the Discovery of them being the result. (4) A 
fourth kind is Discovery through reasoning ; e. g. in The 
Choephoroe ; ^ ' One like me is here ; there is no one like me 5 
but Orestes ; he, therefore, must be here.' Or that which 
Polyidus the Sophist suggested for Iphigenia ; since it was 
natural for Orestes to reflect : ' My sister was sacrificed 
and I am to be sacrificed like her.' Or that in the Tydeus 
of Theodectes : ' I came to find a son, and am to die 
myself.' Or that in The Phinidae: ^ on seeing the place the «o 
women inferred their fate, that they were to die there, since 
they had also been exposed there. (5) There is, too, a 
composite Discovery arising from bad reasoning on the 
side of the other party. An instance of it is in Ulysses the 
False Messenger : ^ he said he should know the bow — which 
he had not seen; but to suppose from that that he would 15 
know it again (as though he had once seen it) was bad 
reasoning. (6) The best of all Discoveries, however, is 
that arising from the incidents themselves, when the great 
surprise comes about through a probable incident, like that 
in the Oedipus of Sophocles ; and also in Iphigenia ; * for it 
was not improbable that she should wish to have a letter 
taken home. These last are the only Discoveries inde- 
pendent of the artifice of signs and necklaces. Next after 30 
them come Discoveries through reasoning. 

17 At the time when he is constructing his Plots, and 
engaged on the Diction in which they are worked out, the 
poet should remember (i) to put the actual scenes as far as 
possible before his eyes. In this way, seeing everything 
with the vividness of an eye-witness as it were, he will 25 

' Od. viii. 521 ff. (cf. viii. 83 ff.). ' H. 168-234. 

' Authorship unknown. * iph. Taur. 582. 

1455* dp: poetica 

devise what is appropriate, and be least likely to overlook 
incongruities. This is shown by what was censured in 
Carcinus, the return of Amphiaraus from the sanctuary ; it 
would have passed unnoticed, if it had not been actually 
seen by the audience ; but on the stage his play failed, the 
incongruity of the incident offending the spectators. (2) 
As far as may be, too, the poet should even act his story 

30 with the very gestures of his personages. Given the same 
natural qualifications, he who feels the emotions to be 
described will be the most convincing ; distress and anger, 
for instance, are portrayed most truthfully by one who is 
feeling them at the moment. H ence it is t hat poetry 
demands a ma n with a special gift for it, or else one with a 
touch_of madness^ in him ; the former can easily assume 
the required mood, and the latter may be actually beside 
himself with emotion. (3) His story, again, whether already 
made or of his own making, he should first simplify and 
i^ccb reduce to a universal form, before proceeding to lengthen it 
out by the insertion of episodes. The following will show 
how the universal element in Iphigenia, for instance, may be 
viewed : A certain maiden having been offered in sacrifice, 
and spirited away from her sacrificers into another land, 
5 where the custom was to sacrifice all strangers to the 
Goddess, she was made there the priestess of this rite. 
Long after that the brother of the priestess happened to 
come ; the fact, however, of the oracle having for a certain 
reason bidden him go thither, and his object in going, are 
outside the Plot of the play. On his coming he was 
arrested, and about to be sacrificed, when he revealed 
who he was— either as Euripides puts it, or (as suggested 

10 by Polyidus) by the not improbable exclamation, 'So I too 
am doomed to be sacrificed, as my sister was ' ; and the 
disclosure led to his salvation. This done, the next thing, 
after the proper names have been fixed as a basis for the 
story, is to work in episodes or accessory incidents. One 
must mind, however, that the episodes are appropriate, like 
the fit of madness ^ in Orestes, which led to his arrest, and 

15 the purifying,- which brought about his salvation. In plays, 

' iph. Taur. 281 ff. ^ lb., 1 163 fif. 

CHAPTER 17 I455i> 

then, the episodes are short ; in epic poetry they serve 
to lengthen out the poem. The argument of the Odyssey is 
not a long one. A certain man has been abroad many 
years ; Poseidon is ever on the watch for him, and he is 
all alone. Matters at home too have come to this, that his 
substance is being wasted and his son's death plotted by jo 
suitors to his wife. Then he arrives there himself after his 
grievous sufferings; reveals himself, and falls on his enemies ; 
and the end is his salvation and their death. This being all 
that is proper to the Odyssey, everything else in it is 

18 (4) There is a further point to be borne in mind. Every 
tragedy is in part Complication and in part Denouement ; 
the incidents before the opening scene, and often certain 
also of those within the play, forming the Complication ; 
and the rest the Denouement. By Complication I mean 25 
all from the beginning of the story to the point just before 
the change in the hero's fortunes ; by Denouement, all from 
the beginning of the change to the end. In the Lyuceus of 
Theodectes, for instance, the Complication includes, together 30 
with the presupposed incidents, the seizure of the child 
and that in turn of the parents; and the Denouement all 
from the indictment for the murder to the end. Now it 1456* 7 
is right, when one speaks of a tragedy as the same or not 
the same as another, to do so on the ground before all else 
of their Plot, i.e. as having the same or not the same 
Complication and Denouement. Yet there are many 
dramatists who, after a good Complication, fail in the 
Denouement. But it is necessary for both points of con- 
struction to be always duly mastered. (5) There are four 1455'' 32 
distinct species of Tragedy — that being the number of the 
constituents also that have been mentioned : ^ first, the 
complex Tragedy, which is all Peripety and Discovery ; 
second, the Tragedy of suffering, e. g. the Ajaxes and Ixions \ 
third, the Tragedy of character, e. g. The Phthiotides ^ and 1456* 
Peletis? The fourth constituent is that of 'Spectacle', 

^ This does not agree with anything actually said before. 

"^ By Sophocles. ^ Probably Sophocles' Peleus is incorrect. 

«45.10 Y 


exemplified in The Phorcides^ in Prometheus,' and in all 
plays with the scene laid in the nether world. The poet's 
aim, then, should be to combine every element of interest, 
if possible, or else the more important and the major part 
of them. This is now especially necessary owing to the 
unfair criticism to which the poet is subjected in these days. 
6 Just because there have been poets before him strong in the 
several species of tragedy, the critics now expect the one 
man to surpass that which was the strong point of each one 

10 of his predecessors. (6) One should also remember what 
has been said more than once,^ and not write a tragedy 
on an epic body of incident (i.e. one with a plurality of 
stories in it), by attempting to dramatize, for instance, the 
entire story of the Iliad. In the epic owing to its scale 
every part is treated at proper length ; wjth a drama, how- 

15 ever, on the same story the result is very disappointing. This 
is shown by the fact that all who have dramatized the fall 
of Ilium in its entirety, and not part by part, like Euripides, 
or the whole of the Niobe story, instead of a portion, like 
Aeschylus, either fail utterly or have but ill success on the 
stage; for that and that alone was enough to ruin even 
a play by Agathon. Yet in their Peripeties, as also in their 

30 simple plots, the poets I mean show wonderful skill in 
aiming at the kind of effect they desire — a tragic situation 
that arouses the human feeling in one, like the clever villain 
(e. g. Sisyphus) deceived, or the brave wrongdoer worsted. 
This is probable, however, only in Agathon's sense, when 
he speaks of the probability of even improbabilities coming 

35 to pass. (7) The Chorus too should be regarded as one 
of the actors ; it should be an integral part of the whole, 
and take a share in the action — that which it has in Sophocles, 
rather than in Euripides. With the later poets, however, the 
songs in a play of theirs have no more to do with the Plot 
of that than of any other tragedy. Hence it is that they 
are now singing intercalary pieces, a practice first intro- 

30 duced by Agathon. And yet what real difference is there 
between singing such intercalary pieces, and attempting 

' By Aeschylus. ^ Probably a satyric drama by Aeschylus. 

' A loose reference to 1449^ 12, 1455'' 15. 

CHAPTER 19 1456* 

to fit in a speech, or even a whole act, from one play 
into another ? 

19 The Plot and Characters having been discussed, it 
remains to consider the Diction and Thought. As for 
the Thought, we may assume what is said of it in .our 
Art of Rhetoric,^ as It belongs more properly to that de- 35 
partment of inquiry. The Thought of the personages is 
shown in everything to be effected by their language — in 
every effort to prove or disprove, to arouse emotion (pity, 
fear, anger, and the like), or to maximize or minimize 1456'' 
things. It Is clear, also, that their mental procedure must 
be on the same lines in their actions likewise, whenever 
they wish them to arouse pity or horror, or to have a look 
of importance or probability. The only difference is that 5 
with the act the impression has to be made without ex- 
planation ; whereas with the spoken word it has to be 
produced by the speaker, and result from his language. 
What, indeed, would be the good of the speaker, if things 
appeared in the required light even apart from anything he 

As regards the Diction, one subject for inquiry under 
this head is the turns given to the language when spoken ; 
e.g. the difference between command and prayer, simple 10 
statement and threat, question and answer, and so forth. 
The theory of such matters, however, belongs to Elocution 
and the professors of that art. Whether the poet knows 
these things or not, his art as a poet is never seriously 
criticized on that account. What fault can one see in 15 
Homer's ' Sing of the wrath. Goddess ' ?— which Protagoras 
has criticized as being a command where a prayer was 
meant, since to bid one do or not do, he tells us, is a 
command. Let us pass over this, then, as appertaining to 
another art, and not to that of poetry. 

20 The Diction viewed as a whole Is made up of the follow- 30 

ing parts : the Letter (or ultimate element), the Syllable, 

the Conjunction, the Article, the Noun, the Verb, the Case, 

and the Speech. (1) The Letter is an indivisible sound of 

' Cf. especially Rhet. 1356* I. 

Y 3 

1456*' DE POETICA 

a particular kind, one that may become a factor in an 
intelligible sound. Indivisible sourids are uttered by the 
brutes also, but no one of these is a Letter in our sense of 

35 the term. These elementary sounds are either vowels, semi- 
vowels, or mutes. A vowel is a Letter having an audible 
sound without the addition of another Letter. A semi- 
vowel, one having an audible sound by the addition of 
another Letter ; e. g. S and R. A mute, one having no 
sound at all by itself, but becoming audible by an addition, 
that of one of the Letters which have a sound of some 

30 sort of their own; e.g. G and D. The Letters differ in 
various ways : as produced by different conformations or in 
different regions of the mouth ; as aspirated, not aspirated, or 
sometimes one and sometimes the other ; as long, short, or 
of variable quantity ; and further as having an acute, grave, 
or intermediate accent. The details of these matters we 
must leave to the metricians. (2) A Syllable is a non- 

35 significant composite sound, made up of a mute and a Letter 
having a sound (a vowel or semivowel) ; for GR, without an 
A, is just as much a Syllable as GRA, with an A. The 
various forms of the Syllable also belong to the theory of 
metre. (3) A Conjunction is (a) a non-significant sound 
1457^ which, when one significant sound is formable out of several, 
neither hinders nor aids the union, and which, if the Speech 
thus formed stands by itself (apart from other Speeches), 
must not be inserted at the beginning of it ; e. g. niv, 877, toi, 
be. Or (d) a non-significant sound capable of combining 
5 two or more significant sounds into one ; e. g. a/i(/)i, irepC, &c. 
(4) An Article is a non-significant sound marking the be- 
ginning, end, or dividing-point of a Speech, its natural place 

10 being either at the extremities or in the middle. (5) A 
Noun or name is a composite significant sound not involving 
the idea of time, with parts which have no significance by 
themselves in it. It is to be remembered that in a compound 
we do not think of the parts as having a significance also 
by themselves ; in the name ' Theodorus ', for instance, the 
ScSpoy means nothing to us. (6) A Verb is a composite 
significant sound involving the idea of time, with parts 

15 which (just as in the Noun) have no significance by them- 

CHAPTER 20 1457a 

selves in it. Whereas the word ' man ' or ' white ' does not 
imply when, ' walks ' and ' has walked ' involve in addition 
to the idea of walking that of time present or time past. 

(7) A Case of a Noun or Verb is when the word means ' of 
or ' to ' a thing, and so forth, or for one or many (e. g. ' man ' 20 
and ' men ') ; or it may consist merely in the mode of 
utterance, e. g. in question, command, &c. ' Walked ? ' and 

' Walk ! ' are Cases of the verb ' to walk ' of this last kind. 

(8) A Speech is a composite significant sound, some of the 
parts of which have a certain significance by themselves. 
It may be observed that a Speech is not always made up of 
Noun and Verb ; it may be without a Verb, like the defini- 35 
tion of man ; but it will always have some part with a 
certain significance by itself. In the Speech ' Cleon walks ', 

' Cleon ' is an instance of such a part. A Speech is said to 
be one in two ways, either as signifying one thing, or as a 
union of several Speeches made into one by conjunction. 
Thus the Iliad is one Speech by conjunction of several ; 
and ^he definition of man is one through its signifying one 30 

31 Nouns are of two kinds, either (i) simple, i.e. made up of 
non-significant parts, like the word yr\, or (2) double; in the 
latter case the word may be made up either of a significant 
and a non-significant part (a distinction which disappears 
in the compound), or of two significant parts. It is possible 
also to have triple, quadruple, or higher compounds, like 35 
most of our amplified names ; e. g. ' Hermocaicoxanthus ' 
and the like. 

Whatever its structure, a Noun must always be either x^^'f 
(i) the ordinary word for the thing, or (2) a strange word, 
or (3) a metaphor, or (4) an ornamental word, or (5) a coined 
word, or (6) a word lengthened out, or (7) curtailed, or (8) 
altered in form. By the ordinary word I mean that in 
general use in a country ; and by a strange word, one in use 
elsewhere. So that the same word may obviously be at once 
strange and ordinary, though not in reference to the same 5 
people ; (riywov, for instance, is an ordinary word in Cyprus, 
and a strange word with us. Metaphor consists in giving 


the thing a name that belongs t o something else ; the 
transference being either from genus to species, or from 
species to genus, or from species to species, or on grounds 
of analogy. That from genus to species is exemplified in 
10 ' Here stands my ship ' ;^ for lying at anchor is the ' standing ' 
of a particular kind of thing. That from species to genus 
in ' Truly ten thousand good deeds has Ulysses wrought \^ 
where ' ten thousand ', which is a particular large number, 
is put in place of the generic ' a large number '. That from 
species to species in ' Drawing the life with the bronze ',^ and 
in * Severing with the enduring bronze ' ; ^ where the poet 
15 uses ' draw ' in the sense of ' sever ' and ' sever ' in that of 
'draw', both words meaning to 'take away' something. 
That from analogy is possible whenever there are four 
Jterms so related that the second (B) is to the first (A), as 
the fourth (D) to the third (C) ; for one may then meta- 
phorically put D in lieu of B, and B in lieu of D. Now and 
then, too, they qualify the metaphor by adding on to it 
ao that to which the word it supplants is relative. Thus a cup 
(B) is in relation to Dionysus (A) what a shield (D) is to 
Ares (C). The cup accordingly will be metaphorically 
described as the ' shield of Dionysus ' (D + A), and the 
shield as the ' cup of Ares ' * (B + C). Or to take another 
instance : As old age (D) is to life (C), so is evening (B) to 
day (A). One will accordingly describe evening (B) as the 
' old age of the day ' (D + A) — or by the Empedoclean 
equivalent ; and old age (D) as the ' evening ' ^ or ' sunset of 
^hlife'^ (B + C). It may be that some of the terms thus 
related have no special name of their own, but for all that 
they will be metaphorically described in just the same way. 
Thus to cast forth seed-corn is called 'sowing' ; but to cast 
forth its flame, as said of the sun, has no special name. 
This nameless act (B), however, stands in just the same 
relation to its object, sunlight (A), as sowing (D) to the 
seed-corn (C). Hence the expression in the poet, ' sowing 
30 around a god-created 7?*^^^ ' ^ (D-hA). There is also an- 

* Od. i. 185, xxiv. 308. ^ //. ii. 272. 

' Empedocles, Kadapfioi (cf. fr. 143, Diels). 

^ Timotheus, fr. 22, Wilamowitz. ' Alexis, fr. 228, Kock. 

' PI., Laws 770 A. ■' Authorship unknown. 

CHAPTER 21 ^58» 

other form of qualified metaphor. Having given the thing 
the alien name, one may by a negative addition deny of it 
one of the attributes naturally associated with its new name. 
An instance of this would be to call the shield not the ' cup 
of Ares', as in the former case, but a 'cup that holds no 
wine '. . . . A coined word is a name which, being quite 
unknown among a people, is given by the poet himself; 
e.g. (for there are some words that seem to be of this origin) 
ipvvye^ for horns, and apr^rrip for priest.^ A word is said to 35 
be lengthened out, when it has a short vowel made long, or 1458* 
an extra syllable inserted ; e.g. ttoAtjos for ttoAcws, riTjXTjtaSeco 
for n-qXiibov. It is said to be curtailed, when it has lost 
a part ; e. g. Kpl, 8a>, and o\f/ in /xia yiVcrai aiK^oripiov 6\}/} It 5 
is an altered word, when part is left as it was and part is of 
the poet's making ; e. g. be^irepov for be^ioi; in be^irepov Kara 

The Nouns themselves (to whatever class they may be- 
long) are either masculines, feminines, or intermediates 
(neuter). All ending in N, P, 2, or in the two compounds 
of this last, ^ and S, are masculines. All ending in the 10 
invariably long vowels, H and 12, and in A among the 
vowels that may be long, are feminines. So that there is 
an equal number of masculine and feminine terminations, as 
4^ and H are the same as 2, and need not be counted. 
There is no Noun, however, ending in a mute or in either 
of the two short vowels, E and O. Only three (/ixeXi, KopLpn, 15 
TT^Trepi) end in I, and five in T. The intermediates, or 
neuters, end in the variable vowels or in N, P, 2. 

32 The perfection of Diction is for it to be at once clear and 
not mean. The clearest indeed is that made up of the 
ordinary words for things, but it is mean, as is shown by the 20 
poetry of Cleophon and Sthenelus. O n the other hand t he 
Di ction becom es jdistinguished and non-prosaic by the u se 
of unfami liar term s, i. e. strange words, m etaphors, length- 
e ne^ forms, and everything tha t deviates from the ord inary 
modes__of_S£eech. — But a whole_statement in such terms 
will be either a riddle or a barbarism, a riddle , if made up 35 
W/. i. II. ' Emp. fr. 88, Diels. ' //. v. 393. 


of metaphors, a barbarism, if made up of strange words. 
The very nature indeed of a riddle is this, to describe a fact 
in an impossible combination of words (which cannot be 
done with the real names for things, but can be with their 
metaphorical substitutes) ; e.g. ' I saw a man glue brass on 

30 another with fire V and the like. The corresponding use of 
strange words results in a barbarism. — A certain admixture, 
accordingly, of unfamiliar terms is necessary. These, the 
strange word, the metaphor, the ornamentaf equivalent, &c., 
will save the language from seeming mean and prosaic, 
while the ordinary words in it will secure the requisite clear- 
I^cgt" ness. What helps most, however, to render the Diction at 
once clear and non-prosaic is the use of the lengthened, 
curtailed, and altered forms of words. Their deviation from 
the ordinary words will, by making the language unlike 
that in general use, give it a non-prosaic appearance ; and 
their having much in common with the words in general use 
5 will give it the quality of clearness. It is not right, then, to 
condemn these modes of speech, and ridicule the poet for 
using them, as some have done ; e.g. the elder Euclid, who 
said it was easy to make poetry if one were to be allowed 
to lengthen the words in the statement itself as much as 
one likes — a procedure he caricatured by reading 'ETrtxaprjv 

10 ilhov Mapadoivdbe fSabiCovra, and ovk av y (pafxevos tov (Keivov 
(Wi^opov as verses. A too apparent use of these licences 
has certainly a ludicrous effect, but they are not alone in 
that ; the rule of moderation applies to all the constituents 
of the poetic vocabulary ; even with metaphors, strange 
words, and the rest, the effect will be the same, if one uses 
them improperly and with a view to provoking laughter. 

15 The proper use of them is a very different thing. To 
realize the difference one should take an epic verse and see 
how it reads when the normal words are introduced. The 
same should be done too with the strange word, the 
metaphor, and the rest ; for one has only to put the ordinary 
words in their place to see the truth of what we are saying. 
The same iambic, for instance, is found in Aeschylus and 
Euripides, and as it stands in the former it is a poor line ; 

' Cleobulina, fr. i, Bergk. 

CHAPTER 22 1458'' 

whereas Euripides, by the change of a single word, the ao 
substitution of a strange for what is by usage the ordinary 
word, has made it seem a fine one. Aeschylus having said 
in his PJiiloctetes : 

f^ayihaiva rj juou aapKas kcrOUi irohos^ 
Euripides has merely altered the ka-dUi here into doivarai^^ 
Or suppose 

vvv be fi €(i>v oAiyos re kol ovTibavb^ koL detx?]? ' 25 

to be altered, by the substitution of the ordinary words, into 

vvv hi n' ia>v fjLiKpos t( kci acrOeviKos Kal aeibijs. 
Or the line 

bi^pov anKeXLOV Karadds oXiyriv re rpd-ncCav "^ 

bi<f)pov p.o)(^6r}pdv KaradcU fiiKpav re TpdiieCav. 3© 

Or rjioves jSoouxriv '' into riiuves KpaCovcriv. Add to this that 
Ariphrades used to ridicule the tragedians for introducing 
expressions unknown in the language of common life, 
bitifxaTCiiv OLTTO (for aTTO biiifJiCLTitiv) , criOiv, fyo) Se vir,*' 'AxtAAe'cos 
Tre'pi (for Trept 'AxtAAe'ws), and the like. The mere fact of 1459* 
their not being in ordinary speech gives the Diction a non- 
prosaic character ; but Ariphrades was unaware of that. 
It is a great thing, indeed, to make a proper use of these 
poetical forms, as also of compounds and strange words. 
But the greatest thing by far is to be a master of metaphor. 5 
It is the one thing that cannot be learnt from others ; and 
it is also a sign of genius, since a good metaphor implies an 
intuitive perception of the similarity in dissimilars. 

Of the kinds of words we have enumerated it may be 
observed that compounds are most in place in the dithyramb, 
strange words in heroic, and metaphors in iambic poetry. 
Heroic poetry, indeed, may avail itself of them all. But in 10 
iambic verse, which models itself as far as possible on the 
spoken language, only those kinds of words are in place 
which are allowable also in an oration, i. e. the ordinary 
word, the metaphor, and the ornamental equivalent. 

1 Nauck, 7: G. F,\ p. 81. Mb., p. 618. ' 0,t ix. 515. 

* Od. XX. 259. » //. xvii. 265. « Soph., O. C, 986. 

1459^ DE POETIC A 

15 Let this, then, suffice as an account of Tragedy, the art 
imitating by means of action on the stage. 

As for the poetry which merely narrates, or imitates by 23 
means of versified language (without action), it is evident 
that it has several points in common with Tragedy. 

I. The construction of its stories should clearly be like 
that in a drama ; they should be based on a single action, 
one that is a complete whole in itself, with a beginning, 

ao middle, and end, so as to enable the work to produce its 
own proper pleasure with all the organic unity of a living 
creature. Nor should one suppose that there is anything 
like them in our usual histories. A history has to deal not 
with one action, but with one period and all that happened 
in that to one or more persons, however disconnected the 
several events may have been. Just as two events may 

35 take place at the same time, e.g. the sea-fight off Salamis 
and the battle with the Carthaginians in Sicily, without 
converging to the same end, so too of two consecutive 
events one may sometimes come after the other with no 
one end as their common issue. Nevertheless most of our 
epic poets, one may say, ignore the distinction. 

30 Herein, then, to repeat what we have said before,^ we 
have a further proof of Homer's marvellous superiority to 
the rest. He did not attempt to deal even with the Trojan 
war in its entirety, though it was a whole with a definite 
beginning and end — through a feeling apparently that it 
was too long a story to be taken in in one view, or if not 

35 that, too complicated from the variety of incident in it. As 
it is, he has singled out one section of the whole ; many of 
the other incidents, however, he brings in as episodes, using 
the Catalogue of the Ships, for instance, and other episodes 
to relieve the uniformity of his narrative. As for the other 
epic poets, they treat of one man, or one period ; or else of 
an action which, although one, has a multiplicity of parts 
1459^ in it. This last is what the authors of the Cypria ^ and Little 
Iliad '^ have done. And the result is that, whereas the ///W 

' 1451'^ 23 ff. ^ Authorship unknown. 

CHAPTER 24 J459 

or Odyssey supplies materials for only one, or at most two 
tragedies, the Cypria does that for several and the Little 
Iliad for more than eight : for an Adjudgment of Arms, 5 
a Pkiloctctes, a Neoptolemus, a Eurypylus, a Ulysses as 
Beggar f a Laconian Women, a Fall of Ilijun, and a De- 
parture of the Fleet ; as also a Sinon, and a Women of 

24 II. Besides this. Epic poetry must divide into the same 
species as Tragedy ; it must be either simple or complex, 
a story of character or one of suffering. Its parts, too, with 
the exception of Song and Spectacle, must be the same, as 10 
it requires Peripeties, Discoveries, and scenes of suffering 
just like Tragedy. Lastly, the Thought and Diction in it 
must be good in their way. All these elements appear in 
Homer first ; and he has made due use of them. His two 
poems are each examples of construction, the Iliad simple 
and a story of suffering, the Odyssey complex (there is 15 
Discovery throughout it) and a story of character. And 
they are more than this, since in Diction and Thought too 
they surpass all other poems. 

There is, however, a difference in the Epic as compared 
with Tragedy, (i) in its length, and (2) in its metre, (i) As 
to its length, the limit already suggested ' will suffice : it 
must be possible for the beginning and end of the work to be 
taken in in one view — a condition which will be fulfilled if io 
the poem be shorter than the old epics, and about as long 
as the series of tragedies offered for one hearing. For the 
extension of its length epic poetry has a special advantage, 
of which it makes large use. In a play one cannot represent 
an action with a number of parts going on simultaneously ; 
one is limited to the part on the stage and connected with 35 
the actors. Whereas in epic poetry the narrative form 
makes it possible for one to describe a number of simul- 
taneous incidents ; and these, if germane to the subject, 
increase the body of the poem. This then is a gain to the 
Epic, tending to give it grandeur, and also variety of 
interest and room for episodes of diverse kinds. Uniformity 3° 

' 1451*3- 



of incident by the satiety it soon creates is apt to ruin 
tragedies on the stage. (2) As for its metre, the heroic has 
been assigned it from experience ; were any one to attempt 
a narrative poem in some one, or in several, of the other 
metres, the incongruity of the thing would be apparent. 
The heroic in fact is the gravest and weightiest of metres — 

36 which is what makes it more tolerant than the rest of 
strange words and metaphors, that also being a point in 
which the narrative form of poetry goes beyond all others. 
The iambic and trochaic, on the other hand, are metres of 
movement, the one representing that of life and action, the 
1460^ other that of the dance. Still more unnatural would it 
appear, if one were to write an epic in a medley of metres, 
as Chaeremon did.^ Hence it is that no one has ever 
written a long story in any but heroic verse ; nature herself, 
as we have said,^ teaches us to select the metre appropriate 
to such a story. 
5 Homer, admirable as he is in every other respect, is 
especially so in this, that he alone among epic poets is not 
unaware of the part to be played by the poet himself in the 
poem. The poet should say very little in propria persona^ 
as he is no imitator when doing that. Whereas the other 
poets are perpetually coming forward in person, and say but 
little, and that only here and there, as imitators, Homer 

10 after a brief preface brings in forthwith a man, a woman, or 
some other Character — no one of them characterless, but 
each with distinctive characteristics. 

The marvellous is certainly required in Tragedy. The 
Epic, however, affords more opening for the im prob able, 
the chief factor in the marvellous, because in it the agenfs 
are not visibly before one. The scene of the pursuit of 

15 Hector would be ridiculous on the stage — the Greeks halt- 
ing instead of pursuing him, and Achilles shaking his head 
to stop them ; ^ but in the poem the absurdity is overlooked. 
The marvellous, however,Js a cause of pleasure, as is shown 
by the fact that we all tell a story with additions, in the 
belief that we are doing our hearers a pleasure. 

Homer more than any other has taught the rest of us the 

^ Centaur, d. 1447*' 21. ^ 1449*24. ^ //. xxii. 205. 

CHAPTER 24 1460^ 

art of framing lies in the right way. I mean the use of ao 
paralogism. Whenever, if A is or happens, a consequent, 
B, is or happens, men's notion is that, if the B is, the A also 
is — but that is a false conclusion. Accordingly, if A is 
untrue, but there is something else, B, that on the 
assumption of its truth follows as its consequent, the right 
thing then is to add on the B. Just because we know the 
truth of the consequent, we are in our own minds led on to 
the erroneous inference of the truth of the antecedent. 
Here is an instance, from the Bath-story in the Od)>ssey} 35 

A likely impossibility is always preferable to an uncon- 
Yincing possibility. The story should never be made up of 
improbable incidents ; there should be nothing of the sort 
in it. \i, however, such incidents are unavoidable, they 
should be outside the piece, like the hero's ignorance in 
Oedipus of the circumstances of Laius' death ; not within it, 30 
like the report of the Pythian games in Electra^ or the 
man's having come to Mysia from Tegea without uttering 
a word on the way, in The Mysians? So that it is ridiculous 
to say that one's Plot would have been spoilt without them, 
since it is fundamentally wrong to make up such Plots. If 
the poet has taken such a Plot, however, and one sees that 
he might have put it in a more probable form, he is guilty 
of absurdity as well as a fault of art. Even in the Odyssey 35 
the improbabilities in the setting-ashore of Ulysses'* would 
be clearly intolerable in the hands of an inferior poet. As 1460'' 
it is, the poet conceals them, his other excellences veiling 
their absurdity. Elaborate Diction, however, is required 
only in places where there is no action, and no Character 
or Thought to be revealed. Where there is Character or 
Thought, on the other hand, an over-ornate Diction tends 
to obscure them. 5 

25 As regards Problems and their Solutions, one may see 

the number and nature of the assumptions on which they 

proceed by viewing the matter in the following way. 

(i) The poet being an imitator just like the painter or other 

maker of likenesses, he must necessarily in all instances 

' xix. 164-260. "^ Soph. El. 660 ff. ' Probably by Aeschylus. 
^ xiii. 116 ff. 

l46o»' DE POETICA 

10 represent things in one or other of three aspects, either as 
they were or are, or as they are said or thought to be or to 
have been, or as they ought to be. (2) All this he does in 
language, with an admixture, it may be, of strange words 
and metaphors, as also of the various modified forms of 
words, since the use of these is conceded in poetry. (3) It 
is to be remembered, too, that there is not t he sa me kind of 
correctness in poetry as in politics, or indeed any other art. 
15 There is, however^ within the limits of poetry itself a possi- 
bility of two kinds of error, the one directly, the other only 
accidentally connected with the art. If the poet meant to 
describe the thing correctly, and failed through lack of 
power of expression, his art itself is at fault. But if it was 
through his having meant to describe it in some incorrect 
way (e. g. to make the horse in movement have both right 
legs thrown forward) that the technical error (one in 
^ 30 a matter of, say, medicine or some other special science), or 
impossibilities of whatever kind they may be, have got into 
his description, his error in that case is not in the essentials 
of the poetic art. These, therefore, must be the premisses 
of the Solutions in answer to the criticisms involved in the 

I. As to the criticisms relating to the poet's art itself. 
Any .impossibilities there may be in his descriptions of 
things are faults. But from another point of view they are 
justifiable, if they serve the end of poetry itself— if (to 
26 assume what we have said of that end) ^ they make the effect 
of e ither that very portion of the work or some other portion 
more astounding. The Pursuit of Hector is an instance in 
point. If, however, the poetic end might have been as well 
or better attained without sacrifice of technical correctness 
in such matters, the impossibility is not to be justified, since 
the description should be, if it can, entirely free from error. 
30 One may ask, too, whether the error is in a matter directly 
or only accidentally connected with the poetic art ; since it 
is a lesser error in an artist not to know, for instance, that 
the hind has no horns, than to produce an unrecognizable 
picture of one. 

' 1452=* 4. 1454' 4, 1455*17, i46o» II. 

CHAPTER 35 1460^ 

II. If the poet's description be criticized as not true to 
fact, one may urge perhaps that the object ought to be as 
described — an answer Hke that of Sophocles, who said that 
he drew men as they ought to be, and Euripides as they 
were. If the description, however, be neither true nor of 35 
the thing as it ought to be, the answer must be then, that it 
is in accordance with opinion. The tales about Gods, for 
instance, may be as wrong as Xenophanes thinks,^ neither 
true nor the better thing to say ; but they are certainly in 
accordance with opinion. Of other statements in poetry 1461* 
one may perhaps say, not that they are better than the 
truth, but that the fact was so at the time ; e. g. the descrip- 
tion of the arms : ' their spears stood upright, butt-end upon 

the ground ' ; ^ for that was the usual way of fixing them 
then, as it is still with the Illyrians, As for the question 
whether something ^aid or done in a poem is morally right 
or not, in dealing with that one should consider not only 5 
the intrinsic quality of the actual word or deed, but also the 
person who says or does it, the person to whom he says or 
does it, the time, the means, and the motive of the agent — 
whether he does it to attain a greater good, or to avoid 
a greater evil. 

III. Other criticisms one must meet by considering the 
language of the poet: (i) by the assumption of a strange 10 
word in a passage like ovprjas fx(v irpoiTov,^ where by ovpiias 
Homer may perhaps mean not mules but sentinels. And 
in saying of Dolon, os p 77 roi dbos fiiv erjv kokos* his mean- 
ing may perhaps be, not that Dolon's body was deformed, 
but that his face was ugly, as cuei8);s is the Cretan word for 
handsome-faced. So, too, ((aporepov be xepate ° may mean 
not ' mix the wine stronger ', as though for topers, but 'mix 5 
it quicker '. (2) Other expressions in Homer may be 
explained as metaphorical ; e. g. in &\\oi p.iv pa 6(oi re jcai 
iiv^pci (vbov (airavTcs) vavvvxioi,^ as compared with what he 
tells us at the same time, 7] toi ot' es T:€biov to TpojiKov adpTJ- 
a€L€V, avKQv (Tvpiyyoiv fre 6p.ab6v\^ the word aTrarrey, ' all ', IS 
metaphorically put for ' many ', since ' all ' is a species of 

^ Fr. 10-12, Diels. » //. x. 152. ' //. i. 50. * //. x.316. 

*//. ix. 202. « Cf. //. X. I, ii. I. '//. X.1I-13. 


ao * many '. So also his oXrj b' aixfiopos ^ is metaphorical, the best 
known standing ' alone '. (3) A change, as Hippias of 
Thasos suggested, in the mode of reading a word will solve 
the difficulty in biboixfv 8e 01,^ and in to fx^v ov KaraTrv^eTai 
on^p(^.^ (4) Other difficulties may be solved by another 
punctuation ; e. g. in Empedocles, alxfra 8e Ovrir' kc^vovTo, to. 

35 Ttpiv fxadov addvara ^(upd re "npXv K^Kpriro.* Or (5) by the 
assumption of an equivocal term, as in Traptoxn^^v be 
vv$,^ where ttX^co is equivocal. Oi (6) by an appeal to the 
custom of language. Wine-and-water we call * wine ' ; and 
it is on the same principle that Homer speaks of a Kvi]p.U 
v€oT€VKTov KatTffLTipoLo,^ a ' greave of new-wrought tin '. 
A worker in iron we call a ' brazier ' ; and it is on the same 
principle that Ganymede is described as the ' wine-s&rver ' 

30 of Zeus,"^ though the Gods do not drink wine. This latter, 
however, may be an instance of metaphor. But whenever 
also a word seems to imply some contradiction, it is 
necessary to reflect how many ways there may be of under- 
standing it in the passage in question ; e.g. in Homer's rfj 
p €(rx€To x'"-^i^fov eyxos^ one should consider the possible 
senses of ' was stopped there ' — whether by taking it in this 

35 sense or in that one will best avoid the fault of which 
1461'' Glaucon speaks : ' They start with some improbable pre- 
sumption ; and having so decreed it themselves, proceed to 
draw inferences, and censure the poet as though he had 
actually said whatever they happen to believe, if his state- 
ment conflicts with their own notion of things.' This is 
how Homer's silence about Icarius has been treated. Start- 
ing with the notion of his having been a Lacedaemonian, 
5 the critics think it strange for Telemachus not to have met 
him when he went to Lacedaemon. Whereas the fact may 
have been as the Cephallenians say, that the wife of Ulysses 
was of a Cephallenian family, and that her father's name 
was Icadius, not Icarius. So that it is probably a mistake 
of the critics that has given rise to the Problem. 

Speaking generally, one has to justify (i) the Impossible 

^ //. xviii. 489=0^. V. 275. * Cf. SopA. EL \(A^ i ; //. ii. 15. 

' //. xxiii.327. ^ Fr. 35. 14-15 Diels. ■> //. x. 251. 

' //. xxi. 592. ' //. XX. 234. ^ //. XX. 267. 

CHAPTER 25 1461'' 

by reference to the requirements of poetry, or to the better, 10 
or to opinion. For the purposes of poetry a convincing 
impossibility is preferable to an unconvincing possibility ; 
and if men such as Zeuxis depicted be impossible, the 
answer is that it is better they should be like that, as the 
artist ought to improve on his model. (2) The Improbable 
one has to justify either by showing it to be in accordance 
with opinion, or by urging that at times it is not improbable; 
for there is a probability of things happening also against 
probability. (3) The contradictions found in the poet's 75 
language one should first test as one does an opponent's 
confutation in a dialectical argument, so as to see whether 
he means the same thing, in the same relation, and in the 
same sense, before admitting that he has contradicted either 
something he has said himself or what a man of sound 
sense assumes as true. But there is no possible apology 
for improbability of Plot or depravity of character, when 
they are not necessary and no use is made of them, like the 20 
improbability in the appearance of Aegeus in Mcdca ^ and 
the baseness of Menelaus in Orestes. 

The objections, then, of critics start with faults of five 
kinds : the allegation is always that something is either (i) 
impossible, (2} improbable, (3) corrupting, (4) contradictory, 
or (5) against technical correctness. The answers to these 
objections must be sought under one or other of the above- 
mentioned heads, which are twelve in number. 25 

26 The question may be raised whether the epic or the 
tragic is the higher form of imitation. It may be argued 
that, if Jhe less vulgar is the higher, and the less vulgar is 
always that which addresses the better public, an art 
addressing any and every one is of a very vulgar order. It 
is a belief that their public cannot see the meaning, unless 
they add something themselves, that causes the perpetual 30 
movements of the performers — bad flute-players, for instance, 
rolling about, if quoit-throwing is to be represented, and 
pulling at the conductor, if Scylla is the subject of the piece. 
Tragedy, then, is said to be an art of this order — to be in 

1. 663. 

64010 Z 


fact just what the later actors were in the eyes of their 
predecessors ; for Mynniscus used to call Callippides * the 

35 ape ', because he thought he so overacted his parts ; and 
1462^ a similar view was taken of Pindarus also. All Tragedy, 
however, is said to stand to the Epic as the newer to the 
older school of actors. The one, accordingly, is said to 
address a cultivated audience, which does not need the 
accompaniment of gesture ; the other, an uncultivated one. 
5 If, therefore, Tragedy is a vulgar art, it must clearly be 
lower than the Epic. 

The answer to this is twofold. In the first place, one 
may urge (i) that the censure does not touch the art of 
the dramatic poet, but only that of his interpreter ; for 
it is quite possible to overdo the gesturing even in an epic 
recital, as did Sosistratus, and in a singing contest, as did 
Mnasitheus of Opus. (2) That one should not condemn all 
movement, unless one means to condemn even the dance, 
but only that of ignoble people — which is the point of the 
criticism passed on Callippides and in the present day 

10 on others, that their women are not like gentlewomen. 
(3) That Tragedy may produce its effect even without move- 
ment or action in just the same way as Epic poetry ; for 
1~ from the mere reading of a play its quality may be seen. 

So that, if it be superior in all other respects, this element 
of inferiority is no necessary part of it. 

In the second place, one must remember (i) that Tragedy 
has everything that the Epic has (even the epic metre being 

15 admissible), together with a not inconsiderable addition' in 
the shape of the Music (a very real factor in the pleasure 
of the drama) and the Spectacle. (2) That its reality of 
presentation is felt in the play as read, as well as in the 
play as acted. (3) That the tragic imitation requires less 
1462*' space for the attainment of its end ; which is a great 
advantage, since the more concentrated effect is more 
pleasurable than one with a large admixture of time to 
1 dilute it — consider the Oedipus of Sophocles, for instance, 
and the effect of expanding it into the number of lines of 
the fliad. (4) That there is less unity in the imitation of 
the epic poets, as is proved by the fact that any one work 

CHAPTER 26 1462* 

of theirs supplies matter for several tragedies ; the result 5 
being that, if they take what is really a single story, it 
seems curt when briefly told, and thin and waterish when 
on the scale of length usual with their verse. In saying 
that there is less unity in an epic, I mean an epic made up 
of a plurality of actions, in the same way as the //tad and 
Odyssey have many such parts, each one of them in itself of 
some magnitude ; yet the structure of the two Homeric 10 
poems is as perfect as can be, and the action in them is as 
nearly as possible one action. If, then, Tragedy is superior 
in these respects, and also, besides these, in its poetic effect 
(since the two forms of poetry should give us, not any or 
every pleasure, but the very special kind we have mentioned), 
it is clear that, as attaining the poetic effect better than the 
Epic, it will be the higher form of art. i- 

So much for Tragedy and Epic poetry — for these two 
arts in general and their species ; the number and nature 
of their constituent parts ; the causes of success and failure 
in them; the Objections of the critics, and the Solutions in 
answer to them. 


47a-62b= 1447^-1462^ 

Accent, 56'' 33. 

Achilles, 54^ 14. 

Actors, 49^16, ^5; 50^ 19; 51'' 

37; 56^^26; 59i'26; 61^34. 
Aegeus (Eurip.), 61^ 21. 
Aegisthus, 53^37- 
Aeschylus, 49"^ 16 ; 56* 17 ; 58^ 20, 

Agathon, 51^21 ; 54^ 14 ; SIS'* 18, 

24, 30- 
A J axes, 56** I. 
Alcibiades, 51^ 11. 
Alcinous, Tale of, 55^2. 
Alcmeon, 53*20; ^^24, 33. 
Amphiaraus, 55^27. 
Analogy, 57'' 9, 16. 
Anapaests, 52** 24. 
Antheus, 51^21. 
Antigotie, 54^* i. 
Ares, 57'' 21 f., 32. 
Argas, 48=* 15. 
Ariphrades, 58^31. 
Aristophanes, 48* 27. 
Article, 56^21 ; 57*6. 
Aspirated, 56'' 32. 
Astydamas, 53^33. 
Athenian, Athenians, 48'' 36, ^ i ; 


Barbarism, 58*24 + . 
Bath-stor)', 54^^ 30 ; 60* 26. 
Beauty, 50^ 37, 

Callippides, 61^' 35 ; 62*9. 

Carcinus, 54^^ 23; 55*26. 

Case, 56'' 21; 57* 1 8, 22. 

Catharsis, 49^ 28. 

Centaur, 47*^ 21. 

Cephallenians, 61'' 6. 

Chaeremon, 47^ 21 ; 60* 2. 

Character, 47*28; 48*2, ''24; 50* 
2, 5 + ,19 + ,'' 8 f.; 54*16 + , 27, 
^13: 56*1; 59*^9, 15; 60*11, 

Chionides, 48*34. 

Choephoroe, 55*4. 

Choral, 52'' 16, 21 f. 

Chorus,49* 17, ^ I ; 52'' 19 + ; 56*25. 

Clearness, 58* 18, 34, ^' i, 5. 

Cleophon, 48*12; 58*20. 
Clytaemnestra, 53^^23. 
Comedians, 48* 37 ; 49^ I. 
Comedy, 47^ U, ^ 27 ; 48* 17, 30 f., 

'^36; 49'' 2, 4, 10, 32,38, *'22; 

51^12; 53*36. 
Comrnos, 52^ 18, 24. 
Complex (plot), 52*12, 16, ^32; 

55^33; 59^9, 15- 
Complication, 55''24 + ; 56*9. 

Compound (word), 57*12, 32, 34; 

Conjunction, 56^21, 38. 

Consistency, 54*26 f. 
Crates, 49'' 7. 
Creon, 54* I. 
Cresphontes, 54* 5. 
Cretan, 61*14. 
Cyclopses, 48* 15. 
Cyprus, 57''6; Cyprioe (Dicaeo- 
genes), 55*1 ; Cypria, 59^2, 4. 

Danaus, 52* 28, 

Dancing, 47* 27 ; 48* 9; 49" 23; 

60* I ; 62* 9. 
Denouement, 54* 37 ; 55^* 24 + ; 

Dicaeogenes, 55* i. 
Diction, 49"" 19- ''33f-; 5o''9, M, 

29, 36, ^ 13; 55''22; 56*34, 

i>8 + , 20; 58* 18, 21; 59*3, 

^12, 16; 60** 3, 5. 
Diliad, 48* 13. 
Dionysius, 48* 6. 
Dionysus, 57^ 21 f. 
Discovery, 50*34; 52*16, 29 + , 

^10 f.; 54*4, M9 f.; 55*16, 

^34; 59^11, 15. 
Dithyrambic poetry, 47* 14, ■'26 ; 

48*14; 49^" 11; 59" 9- 
Dolon, 61* 12. 
Dorians, 48*30. 
Double plot, 53* 13, 31. 
Drama, 48*28; 56*15; 59*19. 
Dramatic, 48'' 35, 37. 

Earth-born, 54*^22. 
Eledra, 60* 3 1 . 
Elegiacs, 47'' 12, 14. 


Elocutron, 56^ 10. 
Empedocles,47''i8; 57''24;6i*24. 

Epic, 47*13. "^ 14; 49*5' ''9+; 

55M6; s6Mi; 58^ 16; 59" 8, 

18 + ; 60*13; 61^26; 62*2, 12, 

14,^4, 15 f. 
Epicharmus, 48* 33 ; 49** 6. 
Episode, 49* 28 ; 52*' 16, 20; 55'' 

I, 13 + > 23; 59=^35 f., "30. 
Episodic, 51^33 f. 
Eriphyle, 53^24. 
Euclid, 58^7. 
Euripides, 53*24, 29, ''28; 55^ 

9; 56*17,27; 58^' 20; 6o»'34; 

Eurypylus, 59^5 6. 
Exode, 52'' 16, 21. 

Fear, 49** 27 ; 52* 26, ^ i ; 53* 4 f., 

Feminine, 58*8 + . 
Flute-playing, 47* 15, 24; 48*9; 


Ganymede, 61* 30. 
Glaucon, 61** i. 

Haemon (Soph.), 54* 2. 
Harmony, 47*22 + ; 48'' 20; 49** 

Hector, 60* 15, ''26. 
Hegemon, 48* 12. 
Helle, 54* 8. 

Hermocaicoxanthus, 57*35. 
Heradeid, 51* 20. 
Heracles, 51* 22. 
Herodotus, 51*^ 2. 
Heroic (verse), 48^33; 59*10 f., 

*'32, 34; 60*3. 
Hexameter, 49* 27, ''21. 
Hippias, 61* 22. 
History, 51 •'3, 6 f. ; 59*21. 
Homer, 47** 18 ; 48*11. 22, 26, 

»'28f., 34; 51*23; 54^15; 59* 

31, ^\2\ 60*5, 19. 
Hymns, 48'' 27. 

Iambic, 48** 31. 33 ; 49*21, 25 ; 51'' 

14; 58** 19; 59*10, 12, ^^n. 

'Iambs', 48'' 32; 49*4. 

Icarius, 61^' 4, 8. 

Iliad, 48'' 38 ; 5 1* 29 ; 54'' 2 ; ;6* 
13, 16; 57*29; 59>'3, 14; 62'^ 3, 
8. Lilile Iliad, 59'' 2, 5. 

Jliwii, Fall of, 59'' 6. 

Tllyrians, 61* 4. 

Imitation, 47*16, 22, ''13, 15, 21, 
29; 48'' 24, '•3, 8 f., 18, 35; 
49»>lo, 24; 50*16. ^3,24; 51* 
31, ^28 ; 52*2, "33; 53'' 12; 
54*27,^8; 59*15, 17; 6i»'26; 
62'' I, 4. 

iphigenia, 55* 7 : Iphigenia 
(Eurip.), 52'' 6 f. : Iphigenia 
(Eurip.), 54*7, i'32; 55*18, 
''3 : Iphigenia at Aults, 54* 32. 

Ixions, 56* I. 

Laconian Women, 59'' 6. 

Laius, 60* 30. 

Language, 47*22; 48*11; 49*^25, 

28; 56M7, '^6. 
Letter, 56'^ 20 + . 
Lynceus, 52*27 ; 55''29, 
Lyre-playing, 47* 15. 24 ; 48* 10. 

Madness, 55*33. 

Magnes, 48* 34. 

Margifes, 48*^ 30, 38. 

Marvellous, the, 52*4; 60* 12 + . 

Masculine, 58*8 + . 

Mask, 49* 36, ^ 4. 

Medea, 53*^29: Medea, 54'' I. 

Megarians, 48*31. 

Melanippe, 54*31. 

Meleager, 53* 20. 

Melody, 47b 25 ; 49^ 33, 35 ; 50* 

10, 14, ^ 16. 
Menelaus, 54* 29 ; 61^21. 
Merope, 54* 5. 
Metaphor, 57^2,6,30; 58*22 + , 

''13. 17; 59*6, 10. 14, 1^35; 

6o*> 12; 61* 16 + , 31. 
Metre, 47^8, 13, 15, 17 f., 20, 22 ; 

48'' 21, 31 f. ; 49*21, 24 f.; 56»' 

38; 59'' 18, 32f., 35; 62*15. 
Metricians, 56'' 34. 
Mime, 47'' 10. 
Mitys, 52*8 f. 
Mnasitheus, 62* 7. 
Music, 62* 16. 
Mute> 56'' 26, 28 ; 58* 14. 
Mynniscus, 61" 34. 
Mysians, 60*32. 

Names, 51'' 10, 13, 15, 20; 55** 13. 
Narrative, 49^ 1 1, 26 ; 51/* 17, '^ 26, 

33, 36. 
Neoptoletnus, 59*" 6. 
Nicochares, 48* 13. 
Niobe, 56* 17. 

Nomic poetry, 47'' 26; 48* 15. 
Noun, 56'' 21; 57*10, 16 + , ^i; 

58* 8 + . 


Odyssey, 49*1 ; 5i« 24, 29; 53*^32 ; 

^5bi7. 59^3, 15; 6o» 35; 62^9. 
Oedipus, 53* II, 20: (Soph.), 53'' 

31: Oedipus (Soph.), 52*24 + ; 

53"?; 54''8; 55*18; 6c»3o; 

62*' 2. 
Orestes, 53*20,37; (Eurip.), 52*3 

6; 53*^24; 54" 31; 55* 5, 7, 

''14; Orestes (Eurip.), 54*29. 

Painter, 48* 5 ; 6o'> 8. 

Painting, 50* 26, ^ i. 

Parode, 52*' 17 + . 

Parodies, 48* 13. 

Pauson, 48* 6. 

Peleus, 56* 2. 

Peripety, 50*34; 52*15, 22, 33, 

38. ^r^ 55^4; 56*19; 59b 

Phallic songs, 49* 1 1. 
Philoctetes, 58^ 22 ; 59'' 5. 
Philoxenus, 48* 15. 
Phinidae, 55* 10. 
Phorcides, 56* 2. 
Phormis, 49^^ 6. 
Phthiotides, 56* I. 
Pindarus, 61° 35. 
Pity, 49^27; 52*38; 53*3, 5, 

*>I2; i,(^\. 
Pleasure, 48*' 18 ; 53* 36, *> 11 f . ; 

59*21 ; 62* 16, ''13. 
Plot, 47*9; 49*^5,9; 50*4 + , 22, 

32, 34, 38, "32; 51*5, 16,^13, 

33 U 38; 52* I If., 19, 37, ^9> 

29; 53*12,^4; 54*12,14, ''i; 

55*22, *>8; 56*8, 28; 60*33. 
PQetry,47*8; 48" 4, 23 f.; 50^18; 

51^6, 10; 54^^ 16; 55*33; 56" 

18; 60^14; 61'^iof. 
Polygnotus, 48* 5 ; 50* 27. 
Polyidus, 55*6, ^ 10. 
Portrait-painters, 54*^9. 
Probability, 51* 12, 28, 38, ^9, 13, 

31,35; 52*20, 24; 54*34,36; 

55*17, 19, ^10; 56*24, ^^4; 

60*27 ; 61** 15. 

Problems, 60*6 + , 22 ; 61'' 9. 
Prologue, 49^ 4 ; 52^ 16, 19. 
Prometheus, 56* 2. 
Prose, 47*29; 48*11; so'' 15; 

Protagoras, 56'' 15. 

Quantitative parts, 52*^ 15, 26. 

Rhapsody, 47*" 22. 
Rhetoric, 50'' 6 ; 56=^35. 

Rhythm, 47* 22 f., 26 f., ^ 25 ; 

48'' 21 ; 49'' 29. 
Riddle, 58*24 + . 
Ridiculous, the, 48^ 37 ; 49* 34, 

36; 58M4. 

Salamis, 59* 25. 

Satyric, 49*20, 22. 

Scenery, 49*18. 

Scylla, 61" 32 : Scylla, 54* 31. 

Sicily, 48*32 ; 49^^ 7. 

Simple (plot), 51" 33; 52*12, 14, 

^31; 53*13; 56*20; 59>'9, 14: 

nouns, 57* 31. 
Sifton, 59*^ 7. 
Sisyphus, 56*22. 
Socratic conversation, 47^11. 
Song, 49^29, 31; 52^21-3; 59b 

Sophocles, 48*26; 49*19; 53'' 

31; 54*' 8, 36; 55*18; 56*27; 

6oi> 33 ; 62I' 3. 
Sophron, 47^ 10. 
Sosistratus, 62*7. 
Spectacle, 49* 33 ; 50*10,13,^16, 

20; 53''! + ; 56*2; 59^10; 62* 

Stage, 52^^ 18; 53*27; 55*28; 

59'' 25 ; 60* 15. 
Stasimon, 52^ 17, 23. 
Sthenelus, 58*21. 
Suffering, 47* 28 ; 52''li; 55^34; 

59^9, II, 14. 
Surprise, 54*4; 55*17; 60^25. 
Syllable, 56^ 21, 34, 36 ; 58* 2. 

Telegonus, 53* 33. 

Telemachus, 61** 5. 

Telephus, 53* 21. 

Tereus, 54^ 36. 

Tetrameter, 49* 22. 

Theatres, 49* 9. 

Theodectes, 55*9, ^29. 

Theseid, 51*20. 

Thought, 49^38 + ; 50*30,^4, 11; 

56*34+; 59'' 12, 16; 60^5. 
Thyestes, 53*11, 21: Thyestes, 

54^* 23. 
Timotheus, 48*15. 
Traditional stories, SI*" 24; 53''22. 
Tragedians, 58^32. 
Tragedy, 47* 13 ; 49* 5 ; 5°* 32 ; 

52b 31; 53a 19,23, 35 ; 59*15; 

Tragic, 50*30; 52^29; 53*27, 

30; 56*21 ; 61*^26. 


Trimeters, 47'' II. 
Trochaic, 49*21 ; S9^ 37- 
Trochees, $2^ 24. 
Trof, Women of^ 59'' 7. 
Tydeiis, 55* 9. 
Tyro, 54*' 25. 

Ugly, 49* 34, 36. 

Ulysses, 54'' 26; 61'' 7: (\nScylla), 

54* 30 : U. Wounded, 53*" 34 ; 

U. the False Messenger, 55* 13. 
Unity, 5i»i, 16; 57*28; 59* 19. 
Universal, 50'' 12; 5l''7 + ; SS''!. 

Verb, 56'' 21 ; 57* 14, 19, 22 + . 
Verse, 47* 29, *» 25 ; 48' 1 1 ; 49** 

10 f., 30, 35; 50'' 14; 51"! f-i 
28; 59* 17. 
Vowel, 56'' 25 ; 58* I, II, 15. 

Words, kinds of, 57*^1+, 33+; 
58*32 + ; 59*5 + - 

Xenarchus, 47** 10. 
Xenophanes, 61* I. 

Zeuxis, 50*27 f. ; 61'' 12. 





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